


From The March

by Guede



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF Tifa, BDSM, Bloodplay, Demons, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/F, Femslash, Incest, M/M, Multi, POV Female Character, Polyamory, Rough Sex, Torture, Vampires, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 93,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cloud and Tifa are in the middle of cleaning up an evil sorcerer when they find three men in the basement.  Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From The March

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fantasy AU, but the technology level is around the late Renaissance. I’ve never played the games (so thank you, [FF7 Wiki](http://finalfantasy.wikia.com/wiki/Final_Fantasy_VII)). Historically, a “march” was a militarized borderland, fortified with its ownership highly contested by the two neighboring territories.
> 
> Originally written in 2014.

The heart of the sorcerer’s den was a large, dank room deep under the tower. Generations of black slime squelched unpleasantly underfoot, while the air stank of decay and dark magic. Eerie blue orbs of light haphazardly flitted about the ceiling, offering only enough light to glimpse flashes of rusted metal, ominous stains and the occasional whitened bone.

“Always looks the same, I swear,” Tifa muttered. She stalked into the center of the room and raised one fist over her head, glowering as the orbs scattered from her. Her eyes narrowed and, one by one, the orbs spiraled back into her fist till it was a blinding ball of fire. Then, with a grunt, she released the spell.

The fire flashed up and hit the ceiling, then rapidly spread into an even coat of light over the stonework, not too bright to hurt the eyes but plenty bright enough to show them the webs of spellwork that overlaid everything. Both Cloud and Tifa grimaced, while the third member of their party sighed and sat down to chew at a claw.

“Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have been a Lord of the Dark if he hadn’t left a mess behind,” Nanaki finally offered.

Tifa darted an irritated look at him, but was just holding onto her temper, judging from the way her gloves were creaking under her clenched fingers. She took a look around the room again, then turned towards Cloud.

“Watch the door,” Cloud told Nanaki. He waited for the _bixie_ to pad off, then nodded at the floor. “Anchor or point?”

“Anchor,” Tifa said, already moving to the edge of the room. “I’m tired, I’m soaked in demon blood, and you know they aren’t paying us for half of this.”

Cloud shrugged and took her place in the center of the room. True, it wasn’t looking like their best bargain so far—restocking alone was going to eat up their payment from the valley towns—but they still had whatever they could take from the tower.

“Hollander wasn’t around here for that long, and he started out as a priest,” Tifa said, sensing Cloud’s train of thought. “He wouldn’t have had time to accumulate much of a hoard.”

“Let’s just see,” Cloud said. He reached over his shoulder and loosened his sword from its bindings, then slid the back of one hand against the edge. When he pulled it out, a thin rivulet of blood was already running between his fingers. He smeared the blood over his other palm, then spread his arms with the palms down and concentrated.

The blood dripping from his hands seemed to freeze in the air for a moment. Then it snapped down into threads that stabbed into the wards covering the room. Magic blazed out from every corner, like molten lace, gold bleeding scarlet as Cloud’s power ate up the wards. Here and there a spell resisted, and that was when Tifa would intervene. She wasn’t much of a mage, but she had magesight and that was good enough to know where to dig in with a bespelled stiletto. The lace began to sag, then to unravel.

They’d worked their way through two-thirds of the room when Tifa cut too deep and caught the point of her dagger in something. She swore under her breath, then called an apology to Cloud and yanked the dagger free.

Something clicked, then whirred, and Cloud had just enough time to jump before the floor swept out from under him. He heard Tifa shout and looked down into a deep pit, with something black and many-limbed reaching up for him.

Cloud twisted the wards and just managed to pull them under and across him. He poured enough power into them to make them red and hard as rubies as they sliced through gelatinous flesh. It wasn’t enough to kill the thing, but by the time they dissolved into the monster, his feet had hit the new floor and he had his sword out. He had the rest of the thing neatly quartered by the time Tifa scrambled down.

“What was that?” She tossed a crystal globe onto the nearest fragment and shielded her eyes with one arm as the acid inside threw up a plume of foul-smelling smoke. Then she reached for another globe, only to stop and cock her head. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Cloud prodded the head with one of his smaller swords. The lower jaw was missing, and what was left was grossly misshapen, but they could still just about make out Hollander’s distorted features. He rolled the head over and gouged out one tooth with the tip of his sword. “Hmm. It’s…”

They both went silent. The remains of Hollander’s last vessel were still decaying and part plopped wetly off, then emitted a sizzling noise. Above them, the mechanism that worked the floor was groaning and creaking; Tifa silently threw out a strengthening spell to keep it from closing on them. With that out of the way, all they could hear was breathing.

Cloud looked down at the floor. It was stone, with a pentagram scored into it to the depth of two fingers. A circle bound the tips of the pentagram, with a larger triangle encompassing the circle. At each point of the triangle was a small circle. He went over to one and knelt down. Unlike the large circle, which was merely traced in outline, these were depressions. They looked like stone, but when he put his hand down, his fingers went through the grey surface. Two of them touched empty air, one knocked into a bar of cold iron, while his index finger and thumb grazed hair and flesh. Hair and flesh that moved.

“Familiar?” Tifa asked.

“Maybe.” When he looked more closely at the depression, Cloud could just pick out a ring of iron embedded into the inner edge of it. He pulled his hand back—the something let out a faint grunt—and got up to retrieve his swords.

Once they were assembled and First Tsurugi was strapped to his back again, he returned to the depression. Tifa had taken up a guarding stance and had an unstoppered capture gourd in one hand; when Cloud shook his head, her brow arched but she put the gourd away. “I’m going to toss you off a cliff if this goes wrong,” she said.

“I’ll jump first,” Cloud said reflexively. He cracked his knuckles and she slammed her fist into the floor right by the depression.

The stone fractured. She grabbed the iron rim with her other hand and jerked it up, peeling back the grates as if peeling an orange, while Cloud shoved his hand under the rim and into the hole. His fingers scrabbled on something that tried to evade him, then caught on—leather, chains, iron ring.

He dragged it up. A pale mass emerged from the hole, its top seething as if it was going to split like a lionflower and bare a ravenous mouth. Cloud twisted away from it and grabbed with his other hand, catching more chains, and hauled the rest of it up. The weight of it fell across him and pinned his legs.

“Oh,” Tifa said. “Oh, now.”

“What?” Cloud grunted. He let go of it and pushed himself up for a better look.

It was…human-like. Very pale skin, paler even than the tribes who lived beyond the northern mountains, and the seething was long silver hair. It pushed some of the hair out of the way with its hands and Cloud found himself looking at green eyes, masculine features. Very tall but well-proportioned—surprisingly muscled, considering the feeble way it moved—and very naked. It stopped moving when it’d gotten a look at Tifa, lying on its side with its head resting on its wrists. When Cloud got up on his feet, its eyes snapped back to him.

“Slit pupils,” Tifa noted. “His eyes are glowing.”

It tensed, pulling its arms further under itself. Black leather bands bound it at the mid-thighs, wrists, and neck. Cloud reached out one hand and it jerked further in on itself, revealing moonstones embedded in the leather bands. Binding magic was swirling madly inside the stones.

“Well, Hollander couldn’t have done this,” Cloud finally said. “He was barely a baron and you’d need to be at least an earl.”

Tifa nodded, but she was still staring at it. “Fine. Is it—”

Without breaking gaze with it, Cloud reached behind him. He felt for the edge of the hole, then slid his hand over it. After a moment, he shook his head. “Complicated. Don’t have time to work it all out, but he had human parents.”

The man froze. His gaze had been unnervingly calm up till that point, but now a tremor of some strong emotion went through him. Cloud pulled his hand out of the hole and the man actually made a small movement towards him before controlling himself.

“Cloud? Tifa?” Nanaki rumbled from above. “There are dead riders coming.”

Tifa and Cloud shared a look: they’d both known the moment Hollander’s vessel had popped up under their feet that this mission had just gone beyond the ordinary, but this was…was verging on the ridiculous. Hollander wasn’t even well-liked among the demons.

“I think we’ve got a half-hour,” Nanaki added.

“Go get the coach ready,” Tifa called. “We found something. We’ll clean it up and then come.”

Cloud was already moving to the second point of the triangle. He smashed the iron rim himself and pulled up the man under it. This one was shorter than the first but more heavily built, to the point that his shoulders barely fit in the pit. He looked less well, too, with fresh bruising along one side and the greenish cast of someone who’d been the subject of too much forced healing. He struggled a little, but stopped at a hiss from the first.

“Can they talk?” Tifa asked, looking over her shoulder. She was already feeling around the rim of the third hole.

The first man looked levelly at Cloud. His hiss had definitely carried intent, but it’d also sounded…oddly strangled. “I think it’s part of their bindings.”

“Great,” Tifa muttered. “I’m starting to regret not having Vincent along. Would’ve been better if somebody had a range weapon.”

“Nanaki didn’t sound that worried. And worst comes to worst, you drive and I’ll hold them off,” Cloud told her.

The third hole held a redheaded man, the shortest and slightest of the three. Also the liveliest, as he managed a faint headbutt to Cloud’s cheek before Cloud pried him out of the hole. Cloud rolled his eyes and grabbed the back of the man’s neck, only to almost fall on his side as their legs tangled together; the man was still considerably taller than Cloud. He could hear both of the others making those choked hisses, but the third man didn’t seem to be listening.

“Help?” Tifa asked.

“No.” Cloud bucked up into the other man’s hip, then wrenched his feet free and got onto his knees so he was holding the other man down. He grabbed the band around the man’s neck—red leather, and the second man had been in grey—and concentrated, and the man went gratifyingly limp. “There.”

He stood and rubbed his hand against his hip. The cut had long since healed, of course, but he still had dried blood all over his fingers and it was tingling with the amount of dark magic moving through the place. It really didn’t make any sense.

A muffled swear brought his attention back to the more immediate concern of getting out. Tifa had jumped back into the room above and was dragging something; her head appeared over the edge of the pit and she waved a handful of ratty, mildewed cloth. “I found a tapestry that’s not too rotten,” she said. “We could sling them up?”

The redheaded man snorted derisively. He’d gotten over his shock and was sitting up, massaging one thigh, the leather that had bound it lying in front of him. When he realized they were looking at him, he raised his hands and jerked at their bindings meaningfully.

“No time, sorry,” Cloud said. He went over and grabbed the redhead’s wrists, then hauled him over to the side of the room before he could do more than glare wildly at Cloud. One push and that one was over the rim.

The other two were more cooperative, taking turns with letting Cloud free them of their leg bindings. The silver-haired one even helped Cloud lever up his fellow prisoner, though the effort sent him sinking against Cloud’s knees, gasping and shaking. When Cloud reached to push him up, he seized Cloud’s coat in such a convulsive grip that Cloud had to press him back into the wall to keep the two of them from tumbling over.

“Cloud?” Tifa called.

The man’s skin made the blood on Cloud’s hands sing. Like to like— _damn_. Cloud pulled at the man’s arms and the man looked up at him, raking his eyes up and down Cloud’s face. Then he turned his head and pressed his face under Cloud’s jaw, not breaking gaze until the very last moment. His breath skidded hotly over Cloud’s neck.

“No,” Cloud said. He gave the man a shake and heard a startled, almost hurt noise. “No, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Then he put his hands under the man’s arms, braced his feet, and shoved him up into Tifa’s grip. He followed a moment later, steadying himself as the remnants of the tower’s wards began to ripple. The dead riders were close enough to be sensed—and to sense them.

Tifa had gotten the second man they’d freed onto the tapestry, and judging from the way he was curled up on himself, he was unlikely to protest being dragged out. The other two men were standing, but just barely, and they had three staircases and a maze of halls before they made it out to the courtyard where Nanaki was waiting with the coach.

“No, you’re tired—” Tifa started.

But Cloud had already cut his wrist. He knelt down and splayed his fingers in the widening pool of blood on the floor, and _reached_.

Stone turned fluid, channeled along the ley lines that had directed the tower’s construction. He bent the lines, reshaped them to his will, and when he looked up, it was into Nanaki’s fiery eyes.

Cursing, Tifa hauled the tapestry the twenty feet to the coach, then dropped it. She was dipping with the fall of the cloth, scooping her hands under the man lying on it, and then levering him into the open back of the coach. “Come on!” she snarled.

The redhead jerked, head swiveling between Tifa and Cloud. He took a step forward, hesitated, and then stumbled towards the coach. After him came the silver-haired man, who nearly broke his skull against the back wheel because he kept staring at Cloud. He got up and Tifa shoved him into the coach, then jogged back to Cloud. Her lips were moving and as she neared Cloud, she spread her arms wide in a gesture of supplication.

She dropped to her knees and skidded a few inches. Her left leg slid wide, but she stayed upright by the skin of her teeth. Her chanting was audible now, urgency raising her voice into a near-keen. Cloud shuddered, closed his eyes, and felt that familiar icy tearing inside as he pulled himself back into his own body.

Tifa caught him as he fell forward. “Idiot,” she hissed, and then whirled around to get them both on their feet. Behind them, the tower was falling.

* * *

It was an interesting conveyance. In outward appearance, it resembled an old-fashioned oxen coach, a large, unwieldy box on wheels used mainly by noblewomen. Except that it used no oxen, or horses, or any other obvious source of power, but instead seemed to run on its own. The interior was spacious enough for three large men with room to spare, and sturdy enough to support what had appeared to be a full-grown _bixie_ riding on the roof. It was stuffed with warm furs that were almost painfully soft against Sephiroth’s flesh.

A groan made Sephiroth still. He waited till Genesis had crawled past him, then pulled himself more tightly against the wall of the coach. Somewhere beneath him and slightly to the right, the back axle echoed Angeal’s groan with the strain of their pace.

“Still up?” One of their rescuers slipped into the coach. The woman was quite young and spoke with an uplands accent, but she had rows and rows of gleaming gems embedded into her gauntlets. She didn’t have the bearing of a noble, so she must have won them herself. “You’re the General, aren’t you?”

Sephiroth opened his mouth, then remembered. He heard Genesis shifting beside him, trying to cover Angeal. The woman watched them, pursing her lips, but she didn’t seem actively hostile.

“I’m Tifa Lockheart,” she finally said. She jerked her head at the roof. “That’s Nanaki, and Cloud is the one who pulled you out. Cloud and I are from Nibelheim.”

A backwater mountain town, high enough so that rumors of uncivilized savagery and forgotten myths were rife. Sephiroth had never been there, but the Shinra had on occasion used the town as a base for launching expeditions by its mages, looking for magical artifacts and rare beasts. The last one had been a good ten years ago, and had come back with disturbing reports of empty houses, breakfast still set on the tables, and a bonfire on the mountaintop. Wild storms had driven the expedition out before they’d found out the fate of the vanished townspeople. Shinra had intended to send a follow-up expedition before the war with Wutai had broken out.

The back panel rattled, then slid aside to let Cloud into the coach. He was a smallish, stocky man, with shockingly blond hair against a nearly colorless face. His eyes had glowed like stars at the tower, brighter even than the glorious firestorm he’d raised around himself, but now they were as dim as moonstone. He closed the panel and thumped down on the floor with a grunt that seemed to travel up through his whole body.

“It’s the General,” Tifa said to him.

Cloud pulled up his knee and rested his hand on it, running his fingers over his palm. “Who?”

“Sephiroth.” Tifa paused, swallowing hard. Her hand clenched into a fist at her hip, then unclenched. “He was—you used to want to hear about him. In the news.”

“Oh.” No recognition came into Cloud’s face. “Who are the other two?”

“I think the redhead is Genesis Rhapsodos,” Tifa said. She and Cloud both looked over—Genesis drew himself up proudly—and then Tifa gestured at Angeal. “And Angeal Hewley. They all were leaders of Shinra’s army. Back when we were children. Then they disappeared at the end of the Wutai war.”

Genesis snarled, gagged against the binding spells, and dropped his head to cough. The loud, racking noises captured Cloud’s attention and he looked up from his hand. Then he twisted around to look at the back. The angle was bad but Sephiroth thought that his eyes were bluer.

“They’re still coming,” Cloud said.

“We’re both drained.” Tifa was already up on the balls of her feet, swaying expertly against the jolt of the wagon as she rapped out a signal of some sort against the roof. “You can’t take them on. It’ll take me a week to call you back, and that’s way too long.”

Cloud sighed and shook his head. “I’m not going to take them on. I’m going to talk to them. Pull the coach over.”

The coach began to turn and slow. Tifa leaned into the motion, her hand pressed flat against the ceiling, her mouth twisted.

“I _know_ ,” Cloud muttered. “Kick me later, all right?”

A moment later, the coach stopped. Cloud rose from his spot and picked his way across the inside, keeping well wide of Genesis and Angeal. He came close enough to Sephiroth for _powerpowerdarkpower_ and Sephiroth breathed out, slowly, and looked into Genesis’ intent stare. He stiffened, then deliberately turned his hand towards the other man, palm out.

Genesis blinked, then tightened his grip on Angeal, who had his face buried against Genesis’ leg. He moved his shoulders a few times, biting his lip, no more certain than Sephiroth. Then the rattle of wood made them both turn.

The side panel opened onto a dense, dark wood. Although the trees were leafless, their branches twined so thickly that little light penetrated, and it took all of Sephiroth’s considerable enhancements to make out the three horsemen that were fast approaching them.

Each figure was heavily muffled, and their horses bore little to no trappings, but still, there should have been the sound of hoofbeats, rustling cloth. There was none. And then the horsemen drew into the dim circle of light thrown off by the _bixie_ on the roof, and Sephiroth saw the bone fingers gripping the black manes, the skeletal feet hanging limp on the sides of the horses, and the skulls staring out of the dark cloaks, eyeless and yet somehow conveying a malevolent, watchful intelligence.

Dead riders were another baseless superstition from the uplands. Relentless hunters who collected on the souls of those who were foolish enough to deal with elder demons. And yet, there they stood.

Cloud spoke and Sephiroth started. Then he frowned; he couldn’t make out the language and he had mastered all the known tongues, even the dead ones kept alive only by alchemists and priests.

The foremost of the riders raised one hand and pointed it at the coach. Cloud spoke again, sounding irritated, and a—a noise of some sort emanated from the rider. It was a voice, but very indistinct, as if coming from a long distance…or as if it was just beyond Sephiroth’s range of hearing, and Sephiroth had much keener senses than the ordinary man.

Man. Cloud had said he was.

He shook himself, exasperated at the lapse, and returned to the scene before him in time to see the riders turning away. They rode back into the wood, disappearing within moments.

A soft thump directed Sephiroth’s attention to the side. The _bixie_ padded up to the coach, looking at Cloud. “You offered them a bargain?”

“We can stay here tonight,” Cloud said. He ran his hand against his hip, twisting it enough for Sephiroth to see the palm and underside of the arm. Neither had any scars.

Then Cloud turned and saw Sephiroth. He paused, looking at him…as if Sephiroth was nothing unusual. Even his friend had had a trace of caution in her voice, wary despite the bindings that rendered Sephiroth helpless.

“I’m too tired to work out the rest of your bindings right now,” Cloud said, twisting to include Genesis in the conversation. He pulled himself back into the coach and scooped up a fur. With his hands, he unstrapped the sword from his back and laid it on the floor. He spread the fur over it with one foot, then dropped into a tight curl on top.

To all senses, he appeared to be at rest. He didn’t stir when Tifa made her way to the open side panel, tripping slightly over the fur under him. She cursed, righted herself, and then turned to look back into the coach.

“Are you going to be a problem?” she said.

Genesis glanced at Sephiroth, who looked at Angeal and then back up. Grimacing, Genesis nodded. He set his shoulders and turned a sarcastic smile up at Tifa, who merely waited. Snorting, Genesis shifted himself over to lie alongside Angeal. He was awake for a few seconds, but Sephiroth knew the lines of the man well enough to spot when exhaustion vanquished him.

Tifa was still watching them. She didn’t have nearly Cloud’s power, but she had more than enough, under the current circumstances. 

“I’ll keep watch,” she finally said. She tilted her head, then laughed. Something about it reminded Sephiroth of Genesis. “We didn’t drag you out just to kill you here. I’ll watch.”

Sephiroth nodded, but remained upright as she stepped out of the coach. She shut the panel and he heard her and the _bixie_ walking around the back, conversing quietly. They were discussing the best routes out of the woods, whether they could find the right supplies to fix the coach—Sephiroth pushed his arms out just in time to keep from cracking his chin on the floor. He’d been trying to listen, and had leaned too far in his condition. 

“Go to sleep,” Cloud said, and slid one hand under Sephiroth’s jaw, keeping him from jerking back. Cloud pushed Sephiroth down with his other hand, then twisted silently back to his own bed.

He had his back to Sephiroth. For a moment Sephiroth stared at the unprotected curve of it—the man didn’t even wear armor, save for one shoulder guard, and Sephiroth suspected that was more a convenient holder for powerstones—and his vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, but there wasn’t much of an improvement. He struggled for a moment longer, then gave in and put his head down. He was asleep before his weight fully settled.

* * *

Cloud relieved Tifa a few hours from dawn so they could get moving again. The dead riders would keep most clear of the tower’s immediate area for at least the rest of the week, but they weren’t good company to keep. Besides, once the adrenaline wore off, it became clear that a site with clean water and enough shelter to use that was necessary.

Nanaki found them a small cave system with a hot spring, far enough from the few roads that traversed the mountain that they were unlikely to be found, yet close enough for them to resume their journey without much trouble. He and Cloud hid the coach in a nearby thicket, and then Nanaki went off to hunt while Cloud transferred the others into the cave.

From the looks of them all, they’d sleep a good few days. Tifa and the one she’d called Angeal were competing for the prize of who was the greyest; Cloud felt a pang of guilt at the way Tifa’s limbs flopped in his arms. She was right and he shouldn’t have pulled that stunt back at the tower, but he hadn’t seen any other way to get enough of a head start on the dead riders. If they had caught up back at the tower, he wouldn’t have been able to argue his way into keeping the three men.

He started with the tallest one, but the binding spellwork was unbelievably complex and after half an hour, he’d barely made a dent in it. Finally he gave up and instead turned to more mundane tasks.

Sephiroth was too unwieldy unconscious to dip directly into the spring, so Cloud settled for laying the other man next to it and then pouring buckets of water over him. Then he sat down by Sephiroth, pulled the man’s head onto his knee, and slung the long silver hair into the spring. The strands were remarkably clean of filth, considering where Cloud had found him, but as Cloud sifted his fingers through them, he stirred up older dirt. A battle on a wide plain. Glass tubes full of boiling, repulsive liquid. Genesis reading a book in an orchard, dappled in sun, and Angeal’s face twisted in mid-shout. The gut-wrenching clang of metal above him.

The cave faded back in around him as Cloud shook his hands free of the wet strands. He settled back and Sephiroth pushed himself up on his hands and knees, his hair coiling over one shoulder like a silver snake. He looked at Cloud for a few moments. Then he made a noise in his throat, a deeper, more rumbling noise than his earlier hisses. He paused and looked around, then gingerly made his way over to the spring and cupped some water to drink.

Cloud wiped his hands on his pants, then gestured behind him. “If you come here, I can get the silencing spell off. I haven’t figured out the rest yet.”

Sephiroth glanced over his shoulder, then dropped his hands and smiled thinly. “You…may regret that.”

He’d hesitated at Cloud’s gesture, but Sephiroth’s comment, rusty-voiced and no less barbed for that, sent Genesis to Cloud’s feet in a defiant…flounce. Definitely a flounce.

It was really a shame Tifa wasn’t awake yet, Cloud thought as he put his hands on the collar around Genesis’ neck. At least she’d get some amusement out of the whole thing. “Tifa said you used to be in Shinra’s army.”

“Yes,” Sephiroth said slowly. He glanced away, then shrugged and sat down to twist the water out of his hair. “She also seemed to think you should know that already.”

“I have memory problems,” Cloud said. He drew out the binding spells from the gems set in the leather and began to pick his way through the intricate loops. “I’m Cloud Strife. I was born in Nibelheim—my mother was born there, and lived there her whole life. We didn’t know who my father was.”

Sephiroth slapped the end of his tail against his knee a few times, then twisted it up into a loose knot. His hair was still long enough to hang halfway down his chest. “There was an incident at Nibelheim about ten years ago. A massacre.”

“We had a couple bad winters.” Cloud had to stop and clap his hand to Genesis’ shoulder to make him stop moving. The flesh under his hand was chilled, even with the steam rising off the nearby spring, and the bone jutted sharply through the muscle. “This was before that, when I was ten. We were starving, and even though the town sent messengers to the capital, nobody came. Somebody said it was because of me, because I hadn’t had a father because my father was a demon, and I was bringing bad luck on the whole town.”

“I thought we’d rooted out all of that,” Sephiroth muttered. “Superstition.”

“Well, a lot of people still believe in the mountains,” Cloud said. Genesis shifted on him again and he grabbed the other man, then sighed as he felt the trembling in Genesis’ arm. He made the other man lean on his shoulder before he went back to picking at the spellwork. “Anyway, there was still this temple to the old gods nearby. One night, a bunch of the villagers came to my mom’s house and broke in the door. They killed her and dragged me up to the temple, and sacrificed me.”

Sephiroth looked up sharply. In Cloud’s ear, Genesis made a thick, rasping sound, and tried to pull away. Cloud yanked him back down.

“Stop moving or I’ll mess this up,” Cloud snapped at him. He paused to remember where he was, then untwisted another loop of magic. “They were right. My dad was a demon. He took me into his court for six years, and then when he sent me back, that’s when your incident happened.”

Genesis jerked free the moment Cloud dropped the spellwork. He swayed, gritting his teeth as the bindings slid back into place, and then put the back of his hand to his mouth and coughed viciously into it. His eyes stayed firmly on Cloud.

“So you killed them,” Sephiroth said, without any inflection.

“They’d had another bad winter.” Cloud got to his feet. “They were in the temple again, with Tifa. I didn’t want her sacrifice.”

* * *

Genesis crawled on his elbows across the stone, then collapsed with his toes still in the spring. “Admittedly, my grasp of theology is suboptimal, but I do not remember viable offspring arising from the direct mating of a demon and a human. Otherwise I’m certain that Shinra would have tried it.”

“How do you know they didn’t?” Sephiroth muttered. He was glad to be clean, although the circumstances…were not to be considered right now. “With what Hojo was saying at the end…”

Grunting, Genesis rolled onto his back. He swept his hands through his hair, then let them fall behind his head. “ _Your_ theology’s far poorer. At least I bothered to learn the theory behind the creation of a summons.”

“This is what you want to discuss right now? Who’s the better priest?” Sephiroth snapped.

“Well, do you really want to talk about what he did to us?” Genesis snapped back. He jerked his hands towards Sephiroth, then froze and stared at his bindings. The corners of his mouth twisted and he dropped his arms behind his head again, hard enough to make him wince. He stared at the ceiling. “Not everything traces back to our rivalry. I prefer to spare a moment of gratitude for simple speech.”

Sephiroth looked at him more closely. The muscle in Genesis’ jaw twitched, but he refused to acknowledge Sephiroth, a gesture so familiar and yet—they didn’t know how long it’d been. Cloud looked barely out of his twenties, Tifa the same, but Sephiroth had used summons that had been passed down for twenty generations, and the demons bound within them never changed appearance. They could have been trapped for years in those pits, barely sensate, just sources of power for Hojo and Hollander and the rest of the priests.

And still, he’d known that the other two had been with him. He hadn’t been able to see or hear or speak, but he had sensed them and, dimly, been thankful. They hadn’t abandoned him, after all.

A terrible, selfish thought. And as if hearing it, Genesis finally turned his head. He glanced over Sephiroth, then sighed and slid onto his side, stretching his hands out to touch one of Sephiroth’s knees. “We should—”

He started back, pulling himself onto his elbows as Cloud came down the passage towards them. Cloud had a bundle of something dark in his arms, part of which slid free to flap along his side.

“Trousers,” he said, stopping well short of them. “Figured anything else wouldn’t be useful till I got your bindings off.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Genesis said quietly. His voice was still rough with disuse, but the tone…he moved into a sitting position, his knees wide, head tilted to one side. “I think we’re well aware of our relative strengths.”

Angeal had always been better at handling Genesis when he’d gotten one of those damn ideas into his head. In fact, Sephiroth nearly hissed for him to handle it before remembering Angeal was still resting in the other cave. He bit his tongue in time to see Cloud favoring them with an amused look.

“Here,” was all Cloud said, dropping the clothes in front of them. “I’ll go get Angeal.”

“Wait,” Sephiroth said. He reached out, forgetting his hands were bound, and had to scrabble ungracefully to catch himself. “Wait. Angeal’s—”

“He’s not well and if you…” Genesis had dropped his sultry act as well, his hands clenching and unclenching against the ground, half-threatening, half-pleading.

Cloud paused. His eyes unfocused, the pupils growing wider…wider and taller, till they were ellipses instead of circles. Then he blinked and they were human again. “I know. We’ll have to make him better before we hit the lowlands.”

He turned and walked away. Genesis let out a long, low breath, then looked at Sephiroth. “The eyes,” was all he said.

“So his story,” Sephiroth said. He pulled at his wrists, then bit back a growl of frustration.

“‘When the war of the beasts brings about the world’s end,’” Genesis whispered, and for the first time in a very long time, Sephiroth didn’t reprimand him.

* * *

Cloud hated to do it, but he woke Tifa. She didn’t seem to hold a grudge—on the contrary, the first thing she did was hit him for letting her rest so long—but by the time the two of them had gotten Angeal to the spring, she was out of breath. She needed at least another night’s sleep, but given how Sephiroth and Genesis had been around him, Cloud figured her presence would ease the tension.

The other two men had dressed themselves, though the trousers hung loosely on their hips. His magic could whip up clothing from some spare tanned skins, but Cloud lacked tailoring skills, apparently.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tifa asked, scooping water over Angeal’s side. She pointed out the bruising there, which only seemed to have gotten worse.

For all his forwardness, Genesis took his cues from Sephiroth. He sat by Angeal’s head and turned it to keep Angeal’s nose and mouth free of water, and let Sephiroth relate their story.

“Shinra developed a way to enhance natural mages, starting at a very early age,” he told them. “It involved extracting the power of demons and implanting it in people. The three of us were the culmination of the process, except that…there was a flaw of some kind. Genesis and Angeal began to change, as if the demonic power was eating them from inside out, and I…had…”

“Nightmares and sleepwalking,” Genesis muttered. “Possession. He had episodes where he thought he was a demonic god, as if his ego wasn’t inflated enough. Careful, you’ll drown him in an inch of water.”

Tifa shot him an irritated look, but sluiced the next handful of water more carefully over Angeal’s hair. 

“The priests insisted that it wasn’t their fault, that the rituals were perfect and that we simply weren’t ideal vessels. I didn’t believe it. We finally cornered a junior priest who confessed that they could save us, but that they had decided we were too uncontrollable and were waiting for us to die after the war.” Sephiroth paused, twisting his wrists against their bonds. “I made him lead us into the inner sanctum, where the cure was supposedly kept. That was a trap. They didn’t want us dead, either. I think they healed Genesis and myself, to a certain degree, but they left Angeal as he was. We were weak and they…wanted us to change the rest of the way.” 

“But you didn’t,” Tifa said. She sat back on her heels and gestured at Angeal, then at Genesis. “If you had changed that much, you wouldn’t look like this.”

“They…” Sephiroth frowned “…Hojo said something, right at the end. He said they still had to wait. But I don’t…”

Cloud heard Sephiroth’s exclamation, heard movement towards him, but ignored it. He sniffed carefully at Angeal’s side, then slid back enough to hold his hand just above the skin. The dark mottling over the man’s ribs grew darker, till it was the color of ripe plums. Then it began to shift, the patches slowly migrating together into one large, inflamed boil.

When he’d drawn together as much of the demon’s blood as he could, he slipped the hunting knife from his boot and slashed open the boil. A sluggish black trickle leaked out, slithering towards him. He ducked his head and smelled it again, confirming his suspicions, and then burnt the trickle to ashes with a flick of his wrist.

“That should help for a few days,” he said. “But we’ll have to keep bleeding it until we can get a priestess of the Ancients.”

He straightened up and looked around, absently noting that Sephiroth, Genesis and Tifa had moved so they were on the same side of Angeal, with Tifa between the other two men and their companion. Cloud found the bucket, used it to wash the ash and a little bit of blood off of Angeal’s side, and then put it down. He licked his palm and wiped it over the cut he’d made to seal up the wound. Then he went out to go find Nanaki and see if the _bixie_ had caught something large enough to provide blood for proper wards.

* * *

“Well, my dear, your dedication is commendable, if very likely misguided,” Genesis said, levering himself up. He rubbed at his jaw, but Sephiroth could see the flesh darkening beneath the man’s hands.

It reminded him too much of those last few weeks, when even the slightest touch had marked Genesis’ skin, and he looked away. His own shoulder was still stinging from Tifa’s blow, but it was fading. At least the binding spells weren’t interfering with his healing ability.

“I’m his priestess.” Tifa stared after Cloud, her jaw set. Then she shook her head and looked back at Angeal.

Angeal, who _did_ look vastly improved, although he was still unconscious. The black marks on his side were nearly gone, and his color was healthier. Sephiroth felt something deep in his chest slacken.

“He said your own town was going to sacrifice you to him,” Genesis said, tone still sharp. “Was that the price for your life?”

Sephiroth hit Genesis on the hip. He didn’t much care for their position either, but the fact was that they were at the others’ mercy until they persuaded Cloud to remove their bindings. Antagonizing Cloud’s companion, however cavalierly he himself seemed to treat her, was unlikely to further their goals.

Surprisingly enough, Tifa took Genesis’ comment as a spur to compose herself. She knelt back down at Angeal’s side, pulling out a roll of linen, and began to wrap the man’s ribs. When Sephiroth moved to take some of Angeal’s weight, she paused, then muttered under her breath and resumed her task. It was only a short fragment, but it sounded very like the tongue Cloud had used to converse with the dead riders.

“My dad was one of people who killed Cloud and his mom,” Tifa said calmly. “I wasn’t…nobody was really close to Cloud, not with what they said about him, but I never saw it. He was nice. I missed him, afterward. And then—they got desperate again, and dad got in the way but even though he was the mayor, they didn’t listen. They killed him, and then Cloud came back and he wasn’t there for them. It was just a convenient place for his father to send him back. I’m the one who asked him to…we weren’t the only ones. After they killed Cloud, they…they thought it worked, right, so they kept killing children. I was the only one left, because I was the mayor’s daughter. So I asked him to kill them, because I was the _last_ one.”

She worked quickly but carefully, smoothing down each round so it didn’t twist. When she was done, she ducked out from under Angeal’s arm and let Sephiroth ease him back to the ground. Angeal twisted slightly, sucking in his breath, and they all waited, but he lapsed back into stillness.

“So now I’m his priestess,” Tifa said. “He’s got a list of demons and sorcerers his father wants him to deal with, and I’m helping. If he wants to help you out too, he can, but he doesn’t have to.”

“Understood,” Sephiroth said.

Tifa looked sharply at him. He met her gaze, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible, and eventually she turned away. “Can you get him back by yourselves?”

“If there’s no hurry,” Genesis said. He had softened the edge in his voice, although his eyes were still angry.

Tifa studied him for a moment, then shrugged. She took off at a fast clip in the same direction as Cloud had gone.

“Well, well, what fine company we’ve found ourselves.” Genesis leaned over Angeal, running his hands across the bandages. “I hope this at least has quelled your urges to join the pantheon.”

“Shut up. Take his left.” Sephiroth pulled Angeal’s right arm more snugly across his shoulders, then began the awkward process of easing up onto his feet with both hands bound and unable to counterbalance himself.

Much to his surprise, Genesis obeyed him. The other cave wasn’t more than a dozen steps, but by the time they reached it, Angeal was swaying dangerously between them. It was all Sephiroth could do to lower himself into a controlled fall into the nearest pile of furs.

Cursing, Genesis struggled with Angeal’s bulk a moment longer before they too tumbled into the furs. Genesis let out a harsh, hurt noise, then painfully tugged himself out from under Angeal. He glowered Sephiroth’s way, but Sephiroth merely closed his eyes.

“They left out some water, and I think hardtack,” Genesis said after a moment. “Whatever the priests did to keep us from losing weight, it has to wear off eventually.”

“We need to know how much time has passed.” Sephiroth moved his legs, and one of his feet slid through the furs to touch cold stone. He pulled his legs in, as much as he could with Angeal squeezing him against the wall, then twisted till his head was resting on Angeal’s shoulder. “It’s possible neither of them ages normally, but the girl didn’t sound so surprised to recognize us. I don’t think it’s been decades. And even if it has, I doubt that Shinra has disappeared.”

“You think we’ll just go back?” Genesis choked. “As if nothing happened?”

“I think Hojo’s not dead yet,” Sephiroth said after a moment. “And if he’s not, I think Shinra is the most likely place to find him.”

Genesis breathed in slowly, the way he did whenever Sephiroth had finally managed to get past his pride. “Hmm. You think Cloud takes requests from mortals?”

Sephiroth turned his head and slit his eye open just enough to see the other man. “He doesn’t seem the type to need an entire retinue of priests.”

“It’s a mere suggestion,” Genesis said. He rested his chin on his hands. “Besides, you heard what she said about his father the taskmaster. It seems we’re not on his list of chores, but then, we don’t know what the criteria is for achieving that honor.”

“I thought you didn’t think.” Then Sephiroth had to pause, to collect himself. “You didn’t think that…what he said…”

“I don’t think Hojo, of all people, is capable of creating a new god. I didn’t say anything about other things that creep in the dark.” Genesis laughed under his breath. It wasn’t a pleasant noise, edged and uneven as it was. “Or whatever Cloud is. He doesn’t quite _creep_ , does he?”

Angeal stirred between them, then abruptly slammed his knees into Sephiroth’s legs. He gasped awake, his eyes rolling wildly until Genesis’ frantic hissing reached him. Then he slowly settled, both Genesis and Sephiroth having to repeat over and over again that they weren’t in the tower anymore. Eventually, he even managed to absorb that they were, in fact, speaking.

“And you will, as soon as we get Cloud back here,” Genesis soothed. He and Sephiroth’s eyes met over Angeal’s back, and then Genesis bent to press his lips against Angeal’s jaw. “In the meantime, Hewley, you’ve some catching up to do.”

* * *

Tifa waited until Nanaki had dragged his share of dinner off to eat in the woods. He was neater than his appearance would suggest, but he still spread more blood around than they needed. He’d come back when he was sated and clean.

“A priestess of the Ancients?” Tifa said.

Cloud flinched, but kept pouring the blood into furrows he’d scratched around the entrance of the cave.

“And what about the three criminals you promised the dead riders?” Tifa said. “And _why_ are you helping them, anyway? It sounds like they got caught up in something terrible, but they were Shinra to begin with.”

He tipped the bowl so the last few drops rolled out, then tossed it into the fire behind them. The heat quickly made the pottery crack and pop, but he didn’t look around.

When she’d been growing up, Tifa had had this image of priestesses as beautiful, graceful beings, sitting on the temple steps with piles of offerings in their laps. Nibelheim had been too small for anything other than house shrines, and the nearest temple had been a day’s journey away, so she’d never seen one before Cloud had returned. She’d seen plenty since, of all kinds, from ones close to her childhood fantasies to that wolfish, wild dedicatee to the northern Hunt, who’d run alongside them for a day and a night and whose memory still made her start away sometimes, feeling the memory of bites along her thighs. But none of them had ever talked about how _exasperating_ service could be.

At that thought her anger cooled a little. None of them took as many liberties as she did, and anyway, Cloud wasn’t the same as their idols. “Is it because they’re good-looking?”

The blood-filled furrows caught fire, then disappeared into the rock. Cloud stood over them, grimacing and rubbing at his singed fingertips. “Tifa. I’m not an incubus.”

“Well, sometimes I think that’d be easier,” she muttered. She sat down by the fire, and after a moment, he joined her. “We were already late to deliver to your father. He’ll be happy to see Hollander, but—”

“You remember me telling you about Jenova?” Cloud said.

Tifa looked over. He seemed calm enough, but his eyes were flickering towards green. “Your father’s former consort. The one banished above.”

“She was the one their priests drew on to change them. I thought they felt familiar when we pulled them out, but I knew when I lanced Angeal just now,” Cloud said, still calm.

They sat in silence for a few moments. It really hadn’t been so long, Tifa thought. She rarely considered time now, especially since they spent most of their days in the wastelands and wilderness, but it’d been in the back of her head since she had recognized Sephiroth. She’d live as long as Cloud had power, but they hadn’t even begun to test that. Her birthday was only a few months away—not even twenty-five yet. And yet she felt so different from the people they saw. She didn’t know how they lived, not even knowing to think of all the vast forces moving around them every day. They were so…blind.

“She’s not supposed to be demonic anymore,” Tifa finally said. “I thought she was dead, actually.”

Cloud nodded. “We’re going to have to look into it. The criminals will be easy enough—we’ll swing a little further west and stop in with Vincent, since I want to ask him to look out, too.”

“I could go to the Temple of the Ancients while you and he are hunting.” The wards stirred a little as Nanaki began to make his way back to them. Tifa stretched out her legs and felt the soft caress of Cloud’s magic for a moment. Then the wards slid back into place. “Not by myself. I’ll take some of Vincent’s acolytes along, the ones who don’t feel completely slimy. It’d be better to just lure out a priestess instead of storming the Temple, if we’re trying to keep a low profile. Do you even need an actual priestess, or do you just need her to—”

“We’re going to need her blood, given freely. And fresh. That’s not going to be easy,” Cloud said. He had relaxed just a little. Nobody could tell from looking at him, but if you could feel his magic—he’d been keeping it clenched as tight as he could, but slowly, it was starting to flow out. “I know, I know, but it’ll help keep Jenova from finding them. I don’t know where she is—I didn’t feel her at all in the tower, except for them. She hasn’t been heard from in a long time.”

Tifa rolled her eyes. “I bet your father’s going to love hearing about this.”

All that power snapped shut again. Cloud hunched over, looking like the young boy she’d known once. “I don’t want him to know, either.”

She’d never met Cloud’s father, and rarely heard about him, either. He had given Cloud a new life, that and enough power so that Cloud wouldn’t be at the mercy of a mob of fear-ridden, cowardly people ever again. And he seemed to give Cloud a good deal of leeway in carrying out his tasks, too. But the few times Cloud did speak of it, it was with a very careful respect that she recognized. Before people had turned against her father, they’d used the same tone.

“Well, I’m your priestess,” she finally said.

Cloud nodded, then leaned against her arm. “You’re the best one I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly. “You’ll do fine at the Temple.”

Heat flushed into Tifa’s face. She leaned back against them, then wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pressed her cheek into the side of his head. After a moment, he let the binds on his magic loosen.

It still felt sluggish; he might be the son of one of the most powerful elders, but taking down the tower was hardly a child’s trick. “You really need to eat before we get to Vincent’s. You know, Sephiroth has a face like a statue, but those bindings were straining when he was talking about what Shinra’s priests did to him, and Rhapsodos was even worse. If you got them to—”

“I don’t think so. Eat where Jenova’s been?” Cloud said, cocking his head.

“You don’t have to feed off their _magic_ ,” Tifa protested.

Cloud snorted and shrugged off her arm. “Still a bad idea, Tifa. I’ll get dinner tomorrow night. We’ll be in the foothills by then and I should be able to find something. Now come on. You should rest up.”

* * *

After his initial disorientation, Angeal took a recitation of their present circumstances with an equanimity that, as usual, irritated Genesis to no end. The two of them easily preoccupied each other, leaving Sephiroth to study their surroundings.

The coach aside, the trappings carried by their…caretakers…were slightly different from what Sephiroth had known before, but not so advanced as to leave him bewildered. His suspicions were confirmed by the _bixie_ , who had returned to camp well fed and far more garrulous than either of his companions. While the relation he and Sephiroth established hardly had the flavor of friendship, he seemed to find no harm in discussing recent history.

Roughly two years had passed. Nanaki had come from the canyons to the southwest, arriving in the Midgar area several weeks after the conclusion of the Wutai war, and as was to be expected for one on the fringes of civilization, he did not have firm details of how the war had ended. He was able to tell Sephiroth that the Shinra had held grand state funerals for Sephiroth and his two comrades, the likes of which had been talked about for months afterward—certainly it took some time to quiet Genesis’ interest in the subject, perverse though that was. 

The official story was that Wutai had unleashed one last, desperate strike, widely rumored to be the summoning of an elder demon, and they had given their lives to stop it. Wutai had surrendered shortly after their disappearance, becoming a vassal territory of the Shinra, but had never quite taken it to heart. Lately there had been stirrings of rebellion, leading Shinra to dispatch several of its best regiments to the area.

“Good news for us,” Genesis murmured. He nudged Sephiroth’s arm, then worked his way forward to the plate and three cups Tifa had just set down before them.

Tifa frowned at his comment, but said nothing as she returned to her place by the fire. She had taken a healthy share of the meat and hardtack and began consuming it with apparent relish. Cloud, on the other hand, hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the food, though he had seated himself next to Tifa and talked quietly with her as she ate.

It was…as simple as it was, the fare was almost too rich for Sephiroth’s long-deprived body. He’d never been one for gluttony anyway, but the wet slick of fat against his tongue almost made him spit the meat back out. Still, his stomach snarled for it, coming back to vicious life in an instant, and with an effort he swallowed a few mouthfuls. Genesis and Angeal both were having similar experiences, judging from the sour twists of their mouths. And Tifa had favored them with a brief look of surprise, before hurriedly returning to her discussion with Cloud.

If Nanaki had an opinion on the matter, he concealed it well. He went on to explain that shortly after Shinra’s army had celebrated their victory in Wutai, the king had had his heirs executed on suspicion of treason and an attempted coup against him. In the wake of the scandal, the capital had been well reinforced, especially with respect to the inner city and several of the temples, including Hojo’s. Hojo himself was still alive, although he’d grown increasingly reclusive and rarely appeared in public outside of the high feasts. Rumor had it he had been struck ill while protecting the capital from Wutai’s last assault, and had never fully recovered.

“We can only hope.” Genesis finally pushed away the plate, though it was still heaped with food. “I did think a couple of spells got through before they threw us into those cages.”

Nanaki paused, his haunches still slewed round for him to lick the blood out of his hindclaws. Then he straightened the line of his body, lazily whipping the fiery tip of his tail so it left soot marks on the stone. “You have a feud with the man?”

“We intend to kill him,” Sephiroth said.

For a moment Nanaki regarded him. Then the _bixie_ turned and padded out of the cave, his tail dimming till it was barely a spark. It was growing dark out and the shadows draped over the crimson of the beast’s fur with greater affinity than would be supposed.

A susurration in the air made Sephiroth look back, and then he rose sharply onto his knees, surprised at how close Cloud was. The other man hesitated, then bent down. He picked up the abandoned plate of food and passed it to Tifa, then rested his hands expectantly on his knees.

“We have another hour till full dark,” Cloud said. “I can work on your bindings till then.”

Genesis drew breath, undoubtedly for some unnecessary barb, but before he could loose it, Angeal had shouldered in front of him. Angeal offered his hands, but instead Cloud reached up and carefully put his fingertips on the collar.

The first words out of Angeal’s mouth, once he was able, were a raspy thanks. Distracted, Cloud nodded and pulled at the shining filaments of magic now hanging out of the collar from all directions. “I’m sorry this is taking so long,” he muttered.

“Why?” Sephiroth asked.

By the fire, Tifa tensed and threw a branch onto the flames more forcefully than was needed. Cloud ignored her. “This is elder work. I’m not one, just the son of one.”

“He’s tired, too,” Tifa called over. “He pulled down the tower to slow the dead riders.”

“They’re not much more than scavengers,” Cloud said, a trace of contempt in his voice. He squinted at the coils of magic on his fingers. “But they’re owed their share. It won’t hurt them to dig for it.”

“What are you doing to him?” Genesis sprawled behind Angeal, deceptively careless. “He got his voice back ages ago, not that you could tell.”

Angeal closed his eyes. “As always, I leave the conversation up to your endless wit.”

Sephiroth snorted before he could help himself, then shook his head and looked around the cave. His palms and knees were still aching from beating against the sides of his pit. Two years.

“I’m trying to see if I can let you eat properly, at least,” Cloud was saying. He had his hands off Angeal when Sephiroth looked back, rubbing them briskly on his legs. “You’re still mortal, that’s for sure, but…”

One look towards Tifa sent her to her feet, her hands brushing lightly over the gems in her gauntlets. Then Cloud put his hand on the ground and made an awkward scratching motion. He scowled at whatever it was before rolling his eyes and yanking up his arm.

With it came a long, gleaming red rope about the thickness of a finger. Cloud wound a few loops of it around his wrist; he seemed to meet significant resistance and had to brace his foot against the ground at one point, but he finally managed to pull up a yard or so of the stuff. He dragged it over to Angeal, who was staring at it with a strange intensity.

“Go slow,” Cloud advised, holding out his hand.

“Wait, wait, just what is—” Genesis put his arm, only to have it knocked aside as Angeal lunged for Cloud.

The end of the rope rose by itself and darted into Angeal’s open mouth. Angeal’s eyes were glowing more brightly than Sephiroth had ever seen them, to the point that it was painful to look directly at them—then they shuttered as Angeal’s head lolled, the upper half of his body swaying like a snake. He made a wet sucking noise and a pulse went up the length of the rope, around Cloud’s wrist, and then down into his mouth. The rope twisted up on itself, shriveled, and dropped from Angeal’s lips into a light scattering of dust.

Angeal fell onto his arms, staring at the ground. He was breathing hard and when Genesis shifted against him, concerned, he pressed his hips back in a distinctly lustful motion before he caught himself. He flushed and jerked the furs over himself.

“It took care of the wards,” Cloud was saying. To Tifa, who merely threw up her hands and stalked out of the cave.

“Well, then.” Genesis swept the hair back from his face, then gestured flippantly at Cloud. His eyes were narrowed and he was balancing his weight like a crouching cat on the balls of his feet. “Perhaps there’s something to be said for the demonic lifestyle. It certainly seems to be quite pleasurable for some.”

He aimed for Cloud and hit Angeal instead, although Genesis missed the way the other man flinched next to him. Sephiroth must have motioned, because Angeal’s head twisted his way without quite lifting.

“I’m fine,” Angeal muttered. “It just…was unusual.”

“Everything’s unusual now,” Sephiroth muttered back. “I hardly think this is the right context for judgment.”

Angeal still didn’t meet his eyes, but the other man relaxed his stance. Cloud, at least, was disinterested both in Angeal’s discomfort and in Genesis’ comments, for he began rolling up the furs. “There’s no more for you two,” he said, apologetic. “I thought he needed it more, anyway.”

“And you?” When Cloud looked up, Sephiroth gestured at Cloud’s belly. “When do you eat?”

“Later,” Cloud said after a moment. “When we reach the nearest town. If we’re lucky, that will be before the first bell.”

“Traveling at night?” Genesis said.

“It’s quieter,” Cloud offered. His hands slowed, then abruptly twisted up the fur between them. He shoved the fur under his arm, looking steadily at Genesis, and then put out his hand.

Angeal took it. Only someone who knew him as well as Sephiroth did would have spotted the moment of hesitation, or the over-tightness of his initial grip.

Admittedly, they were all surprised at how easily Angeal stood; Genesis thrust his shoulder out barely in time for Angeal to catch himself on it. Whatever the manner of Cloud’s treatment, it did seem to be restoring the man’s strength.

“When you’re ready,” Cloud finally said, leaving with the furs.

“When we’ve half-frozen,” Genesis grumbled. Once he was certain Angeal could bear it, he used the other man as a crutch to get to his own feet. “Very well, gentlemen. Shall we see what this brave new world holds?”

* * *

It was a quiet journey down the mountainside. Nanaki loped ahead to intimidate the local predators, while Cloud kept watch for obstacles from the roof of the coach.

Tifa had wanted to take that, but Cloud had made her lie down inside the coach. She did need it, but not so badly that it couldn’t have waited till they hit the town. She wanted to see him eat before she let down her guard, especially after that little show in the cave. The three idiots hadn’t noticed, she was sure, but she’d seen the way Cloud had stiffened as Hewley had gulped down the wards. He couldn’t keep up for much longer.

She turned over, hitting her foot against the wall, and Rhapsodos sighed theatrically while he continued his small gestures and meaningful looks at the other two. All right, they weren’t stupid; they knew well enough to not discuss anything _out loud_ within her earshot, and whatever sign language they were using, she didn’t recognize it. Still, they were being awfully grudging about everything, except maybe for Hewley.

“Are you all right?” Speaking of the man, when she looked over, he was offering her a fur. “Are you cold?”

“No.” Tifa rolled over onto her knees and rapped her knuckles against the wall. After a moment, Cloud answered with four taps.

They were close enough to the town to start looking. She got up, ignoring the curious looks, and went over to one of the window slits. The land outside had been cleared of brush and here and there she could see a thin haze of smoke against the stars; a farmhouse chimney. The soil was too rocky for grain, but they grew fruits and grazed livestock on the hills.

The coach stopped and Tifa threw open the side panel, then breathed in deeply as the night breeze gusted over her. Sheep, grass, fear. Not much of a meal, but at this point anything would help Cloud.

“What does he eat?” Angeal asked from behind her. His voice was soft but as careful as those of his friends. “It was more than enough that he knew how to tend my—my—”

“You didn’t know what he was going to do, and anyway, he can’t eat his own magic,” Tifa muttered. She tensed as she heard him slide nearer, but didn’t look over her shoulder. “Well, he can, but it doesn’t do anything for him. He’s just so _stubborn_.”

She hadn’t meant to say that. Damn it, she was tired, and frustrated, and, if she was honest, not used to the company. Nanaki was willing to talk when he was around, but he went off on his own half the time, and even when he was there, he preferred to listen without comment. It’d been probably a good six months since she’d been around other people this much.

Angeal laughed. It wasn’t a mocking laugh, just a knowing one. “I’m sorry. That kind of friend isn’t easy.”

“ _We’re_ not friends.” Tifa swung herself out of the coach and looked up at the sky. The moonrise hadn’t peaked yet, so once Cloud had fed they could probably get in another four, five hours of traveling. If they didn’t have to leave the main road, they might even make Old Corel by daybreak.

They were arguing behind her, Genesis’ cutting voice foremost. Then he shut up and Angeal tried again. “I’m not trying to offend you, ma’am.”

_Ma’am_. A snort escaped her before she could help herself. “I’m not that old. I’m twenty-three.”

Angeal edged to the open side, then slid his legs out and let them hang down. Even sitting, he was taller than her. “Does it get easier?” When she glanced at him, he gestured at his own face. “I never liked it, even before I found out why I’d stopped having to shave. It’s a lie.”

“It’s not a lie if it’s what you are,” Tifa said after a moment. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out over the fields again. This time, she spotted Cloud crouched in one of the few trees left standing. “I’m not truly mortal now, not really, so I don’t age. I don’t know what happened to you, but I asked to be this way.”

“Sephiroth said that your town tried to kill you.” Angeal paused as Sephiroth told him something that sounded distinctly like ‘that’s an order.’ Then he shrugged and looked down at his bound hands. “My parents…didn’t react much better when they heard what’d happened to me. Monsters. I was supposed to guard against them, hence the name.”

Tifa jerked her arms down, then controlled herself. She took a step away from the coach. “Do you have a point?”

“Is he going to kill somebody?” Angeal pointed at Cloud.

“He needs to eat,” Tifa said curtly. She covered her gauntlets, ready to activate the stones if Angeal tried anything, but several moments passed and he only sat there, looking upset. “It’s the hunter’s moon. If you’re out here, on this night, you probably deserve it.”

“Back home a lot of girls used to sneak out on this night. They thought if they threw flower petals into a puddle of rainwater, they’d see the face of their future husband,” Angeal said. He was picking at the trousers they’d given him. He’d already made a hole in the leather. “Look, he—you helped me, and I know it cost you, and I know I didn’t even deserve it, but someone else shouldn’t pay the price for my sins.”

If his friends didn’t shut him up, Tifa was going to hit him. And keep hitting him, till he stopped. Maybe it’d be a waste of everything Cloud had poured into him so far, but like he said, he hadn’t earned it. “I don’t give a damn about sin,” she snapped. “And I don’t care about yours. I made my choice a long time ago. I let them take Cloud and he didn’t even do anything—he couldn’t help who his father was, and anyway he didn’t even know till after he died. It’s not like he could—like his father did anything before. I’m not letting anybody else get to him.”

“So don’t,” Angeal said. “He cares about you, too. He’s not like demons I’ve seen, not yet. Don’t let him lose that.” 

Tifa glared out at the night, then whirled around. Her fist caught him high on the jaw, but he had so much bulk he didn’t fall over. She raised her arm again, then dropped to her knees, snarling out her prayer.

* * *

“For the record, Angeal, I’m no more pleased about our current state of being than you are, but I am _quite certain_ that forcing my feelings on our caretakers isn’t a productive way to deal with it,” Genesis finally hissed.

Once Tifa had called Cloud back, she had slammed shut the side panel and the coach had started up at such a fast clip that they’d been thrown into a tangle in the back. They’d barely freed themselves when the coach had come to a jarring halt, causing another painful jumble. As it was, Sephiroth still couldn’t discern what had his left foot trapped, or whether Genesis still had all of his fingers. Of course, that didn’t prevent Genesis from issuing a diatribe.

“That girl seems at peace with her decisions. I may not agree with them, but I don’t think it’s my place to question her about it. Not to mention that we have other priorities. Destroying Shinra, healing you, discovering what, exactly, our diet consists of these days…” Genesis shook off Sephiroth’s hands, then reached down and shoved Angeal’s knee out of his stomach. “Getting this _damn_ collar off.”

“When it suits you so well?” Sephiroth muttered. It was too quiet outside. He could smell the faint brimstone of Nanaki’s tail, and he thought he could pick out Tifa’s heavy, still angry breathing, but he didn’t know where Cloud was. His skin was prickling and it had nothing to do with the cold.

Genesis shot him a look, but remarkably, refrained from speaking. The reason why became apparent when the other man moved back enough for Sephiroth to see Angeal’s blank, unnaturally still face.

“He said we were mortal,” Genesis said, much more quietly. “He would know.”

“That doesn’t really make a difference.” Angeal’s lips barely moved.

“Then go kill yourself and spare us the burden,” Sephiroth said. He felt Genesis’ incredulous, incensed stare burning into the side of his face, but refused to look away from Angeal. “You never wanted to see this to its end, anyway. You tried to hide from me.”

Angeal finally stirred, pushing himself up enough to reach for Sephiroth. His fingertips touched Sephiroth’s knee and Sephiroth shoved them away.

“You can cling to your old life, if you wish. You had one.” Sephiroth rolled off his knees and moved back till he met the wall. “I may not know what I am now, but I’ve always known that I am _not_ what those fools thought I should be. And I will not be.”

“I wanted to keep you two out of it,” Angeal said. “I know—”

He tried for Sephiroth again and Sephiroth reached for a sword that wasn’t there. Snarling at himself, Sephiroth brought his hands down, but not quick enough to keep Angeal away. The other man pressed onto Sephiroth’s legs, and when Sephiroth tried to push him off, grabbed the bindings on Sephiroth’s wrists.

If they’d been free, it wouldn’t have been sufficient, but the binding magic made them roughly equivalent in strength. Sephiroth wouldn’t struggle when there was clearly no point, so he slumped back into the wall. Angeal released his hands and he let them drop into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Angeal said.

“So?” Sephiroth snapped.

“So I’m not going to leave now.” Angeal lifted his hands and slid them around Sephiroth’s jaw, as if Sephiroth wasn’t already looking him directly in the eye. “I didn’t think we were—I thought I was the only one back then. That was why, all right? But I’m not, and…I don’t like it, I think I hate it, but I’m not going to leave either of you behind.”

He ran his thumb across Sephiroth’s cheek, sweeping it down just short of Sephiroth’s mouth. For all Genesis’ boldness, Angeal had always known how to strike the deepest.

The sound of scraping wood startled both of them. Angeal nearly smashed his head into Sephiroth’s shoulder, while Sephiroth narrowly avoided having his windpipe crushed by Angeal’s hands. Sephiroth shouldered Angeal off, then twisted around.

Genesis leaned against the side panel. He jerked his head towards the outside, movements oddly constricted.

Tifa stood with her back to them. “It’s a plague pit,” she said. “Probably a good hundred years old. They buried them so quick that at least a third were still alive.”

They were at the edge of a large patch of particularly lush grass. The blades stood knee-high and crowded so thick that they seemed more like the pelt of some huge, slumbering beast, and in the center of them was Cloud. He stood with his hands out and his head down, while around him swirled thin, pale, greenish wisps of…something. A sudden clamor rose in Sephiroth’s ears, the groaning and weeping of hundreds of people rising sharply to a keen that split his skull—

—it died, leaving him cradling his aching head, and out in the field Cloud put one hand to his head, wavering like a drunkard.

“Well, we didn’t kill anyone,” Tifa said. “You happy?”

“It’s injustice I object to,” Angeal said, pained. He was pale and shaking, but he dragged his head up to look at Tifa. “And you both…it’s unjust to give you those choices.”

“We still made them.” Then Tifa took a step forward, her stance dropping sharply in confidence. “Cloud? Cloud?”

Cloud called back, but in an archaic dialect Sephiroth only knew from historical studies. Clearly alarmed, Tifa clasped her left gauntlet, the stones in it flaring. But then Cloud shook himself all over and hit the side of his head.

“Coming,” he said. He looked up and saw them. “Come on. We should go.”

* * *

Eating dead souls always left a bad echo in Cloud’s head. Too many unfulfilled desires, old grudges, clawing regrets. And he knew Tifa felt the same, hating the way his memory of the time before his death grew even shakier. He didn’t understand why she’d called him off the first hunt.

“I don’t think I really do, either,” Tifa muttered. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, scrubbing her hands down her thighs. “Hewley’s…very sincere. But he really doesn’t know anything.”

“You like him?” Cloud stood up as they crested the next hill. They were within sight of the first major trading town out of the mountains, Old Corel. Anyone with sense had stayed indoors last night, with their doors and windows shut tight, but the hunter’s moon was over and it was the season for the great autumn fairs. He could see a spangle of color along the base of one of the city walls, marking out a line of tents.

Tifa laid back and laughed. She laughed till she choked a bit, and had to turn on her side to get the spit out of her mouth. “Oh, no. Oh, no. I’m kicking myself for listening to him, anyway. He can’t see past his own damn worries and I don’t have the time for that.”

“Ah, well. Maybe Elena will be around,” Cloud said, dropping back on his knees. “You two can go shopping. The fair’s going to start today or tomorrow, so maybe you can get some new boots before you head off for the Temple.”

“When I was little, one of the villagers brought back these white boots for his wife,” Tifa said. Her tone had grown strangely dreamy. “Completely impractical. Stepping on an eggshell would’ve split the soles. But they were so pretty, with all this silver stitching. I nagged my father for weeks to get me one, but even he couldn’t find a pair like them. Finally he paid the seamstress to make me a pair out of white canvas—she even got the silver thread, somehow. I was so little I didn’t know the difference between leather and canvas, and I didn’t take them off for a week.”

A spark of pain creased the lower left back of Cloud’s head. He pressed the heel of his hand against it, hoping the newly-consumed souls weren’t still trying to fight free. Usually they assimilated too quick to fight this long, but perhaps he’d gotten hold of a particularly strong-willed one.

“I got the worst blisters, of course,” Tifa went on. “All over each toe. You found me crying under a bush on the way to Zangan’s because I just couldn’t walk another step, and you helped me along till the other kids saw you. But even after that, I had to keep wearing the damn things. Even my dad wasn’t rich enough to buy me another pair that year.”

“How much money do we have?” Cloud asked.

Tifa abruptly pushed herself up and over, holding on tightly to her shins while she hunched. She rocked in place a few times, then took a deep breath and straightened up. “I guess if we’re putting our other jobs on hold for now, we won’t need to restock right away. They need clothes and weapons. We can’t spring for too fancy, though they’ll probably want that, being Shinra’s elite and all.”

“On the contrary, dear, I’ll gladly give up clothing if you find me a proper blade.” Genesis peered at them over the edge of the roof, then pulled himself up next to Cloud. His trousers slid to within a hair of falling off and he awkwardly pinned them with his elbow till he was fully on the roof and could risk reaching with his hands. “The Goddess knows that nudity would be preferable to continuing in this flour sack.”

“Well, why don’t you just toss it off, already?” Tifa snapped. She scooted over as far as she could get from Genesis, then kicked open the strongbox they kept where the driver normally would have sat.

Sephiroth’s head appeared next, but he seemed content to merely fold his arm over the roof and perch along the side of the coach. “We stopped,” he said. “Is there a reason why?”

“We’re going in there.” Cloud pointed at Old Corel. “But we’ll have to walk in. Nanaki will stay with the coach since they’re both too noticeable. And I think people would remember if you walked in naked.”

“If you insist,” Genesis said. He lounged in the trousers as if they were the finest silks. “Explain to me why you can’t simply magick up something for us. You’re demonspawn, after all.”

Tifa punched something in the strongbox. It sounded like metal and leather, and a moment later she cursed and began digging fiercely. She’d probably split a money pouch again.

“If I used magic for everything, I’d be killing off entire cities to make up for it,” Cloud said. “I thought you objected to that.”

“ _Angeal_ objects to the death of civilians.” Genesis’ tone arched even as his arm shifted away from Cloud. “Some of us are less idealistic.”

“If it is an either-or decision, we choose weapons,” Sephiroth said. He was addressing Tifa, who nodded curtly and finally pulled out a small leather bag.

“Didn’t you have your own, before?” Cloud asked.

Tifa turned sharply. Her fingers were so tight on the bulging money pouch that he could see the leather stretching under them.

“You were high-ranking army officers, weren’t you?” Cloud looked at Sephiroth. “I thought they always carried customized blades, so they were easier to spot in the field.”

The strongbox lid slammed shut and Genesis looked that way, eyes wide and then narrowing. Muttering to herself, Tifa strapped the pouch to her belt and then bent again to toss on her best cloak. She’d already changed out of her hunting leathers into woolen leggings and a plain tunic, so she’d look like a well-to-do tradeswoman.

“I think I was unconscious by that point,” Genesis said, finally turning. He looked at Sephiroth. “Did you see what they did with them?”

“Fire.” Sephiroth stared at something on the horizon. His binding spells were singing like metal on the verge of snapping. “The altar. They melted them down.”

Genesis put his head down on the roof and gazed straight up into the sky. He wasn’t any better. “Pity.”

“Just get clothes,” Cloud told Tifa. She blinked hard, then looked more closely at him than she had at either of the other two. “I’ll get them something.”

“Won’t your dad hear of it?” she asked.

The sense of pent-up violence suddenly dissipated. Sephiroth and Genesis were both looking curiously at them, not understanding a word of the Low Tongue. “Not if Yuffie does it.”

“Well, she owes you,” Tifa said dubiously. She tugged at her cloak a few more times, then hopped down to the ground. “Back at noon.”

“Something red, dear!” Genesis called after her. 

Tifa jerked her shoulders, then broke into an easy lope down the road. Nanaki, resting on a hillock nearby, lifted his head to see her go, then looked towards the coach. When Cloud waved, the _bixie_ pushed up his hindquarters, arched from the shoulders back, and then let out a sooty, sulfurous belch. It smelled a little light, so Cloud dug out a chunk of coal and tossed it over. Nanaki caught it in his mouth and settled back down to gnaw at it.

Genesis leaned over Cloud’s left shoulder. “So, arms?” he said.

He nearly threw himself off the coach when Cloud took one of his wrists. Fortunately for him, Sephiroth’s head was in the way, and after an ungraceful scrabble, Sephiroth and Cloud between them managed to haul Genesis to safety. Cloud kept hold of Genesis’ wrist and once the other man’s position was stable, he started working on the binding spells.

“Right after I get it to let you eat. I think I know how to let you use weapons, even if you can’t use magic. I’m starting to get the hang of it,” Cloud told him.

Sephiroth dropped out of the coach with a grunt and then circled around the back. Over on the hillock, Nanaki lifted his head, fragments of coal sticking out of his teeth. He flopped down on his side, his tail swishing lazily as he watched Sephiroth.

“Perimeter check. As if we’re facing enemy forces,” Genesis muttered. He twisted his arms so he could lie on his side, his head curving around Cloud to nearly keep his expression out of sight. “Angeal’s asleep again. Whatever you did, it’s not lasting very long.”

“I know. Tifa’s going to get a priestess from the Temple of the Ancients and then we’ll do a proper cleansing.” Cloud tugged Genesis’ wrists up on his knee so he could see better. Some of the magic was woven so finely that he could barely make out the pattern, and near the end he’d been able to read his father’s spells like a book. “I know the demon they tried to put in you. She’s able to make offspring just by pulling them off of her. The one in Angeal didn’t take too well, that’s the problem.”

Genesis bumped his head into Cloud’s hip, then shifted his legs so one of them slid over Cloud’s foot. “She sounds like an absolutely charming lady. Is she on this list of yours?”

“Yes,” Cloud said after a moment. He teased carefully at one thread of magic.

“So is that why you’re helping us?” Genesis asked. His head pressed against Cloud’s hip again, more forcefully.

Cloud paused, looking at the fragile weft of power strung between his fingers. If nothing else, the plague dead had quieted his hunger, but it was still in the back of his mind. Like a humming, in the same key as the humming of the spells in his hands. “She’s going to want you now that you’re out. If she finds you too fast, I’m not going to be ready. If she finds you and you can’t fight her—”

“What if we joined her?” Genesis said. He moved his head away from Cloud and looked up, eyes intent but not quite challenging.

“Well, she’d eat your soul, and you’d die. That’s why she’s up here in the first place. Demons don’t have a lot of rules, but they need to reproduce and keep their race going,” Cloud said. He shrugged and found the knot that held Genesis’ ability to absorb magic, and pulled it loose. “You might want to go to her anyway, because she can be very persuasive, but that’s what will happen.”

“I don’t know,” Genesis said slowly, as if each word cost him blood. “Whether you’ve more ice in your veins than even Sephiroth there, or if you’re merely the epitome of simplemindedness. Very well. If we can’t fight her, then what happens?”

Cloud grimaced. “Then probably I’ll have to kill you first, and it’ll waste time and she’ll get away.”

That bought him a few minutes of silence. Sephiroth finished his pass around the coach and stopped to look at Old Corel. His hands occasionally twitched to his left hip, just as Genesis sometimes reached to his right.

“Angeal owes your priestess an apology.” Genesis pulled himself up without disturbing Cloud’s work on his wrists. He still looked exhausted—they all did—but his movements were much smoother, more assured. “You as well, I suppose, for last night.”

“It doesn’t really matter. I just needed enough to get here, and I can hunt tonight,” Cloud muttered. He twisted the strands of magic around his left hand, then twisted them back. He could make out one end of the spell that bound Genesis from taking up arms, but it doubled back on itself and then, frustratingly, vanished into a morass.

“Yes, you still owe the dead riders a soul or two, don’t you?” When Cloud looked up, Genesis smiled and flicked his fingers over Cloud’s nose. “I realize my companions haven’t given you the best impression, but at least _one_ of us is well-versed in folklore. If I remember correctly, there’s a murderers’ den in the west end of town, where they filled in the old mines. I doubt the city’s managed to root them out in the last two years.”

Cloud hesitated and Genesis brushed his fingers over Cloud’s nose again, slower, letting them drift over the bridge. He still had calluses from handling a sword and his nails were ragged, and had old blood under them. His own blood, and stone dust, and voiceless screaming in a black pit.

“I don’t like owing debts myself,” Genesis was saying.

“You don’t have any with me.” Cloud jerked his hands, then froze as he felt the knots unraveling from his fingers. Then he pulled them free and slid past Genesis to the edge of the roof. “You’re bait.”

He dropped into the grass, expecting an attempted blow, an insult, but nothing happened. It was…confusing. He cocked his head and then remembered that Tifa had left, and anyway, she wouldn’t yell at him for something Genesis had done.

“Where are we staying?” Sephiroth was leaning against the front wheel, his back to the coach.

“With someone I know,” Cloud said, turning. He stopped when Sephiroth jerked his arms away. After a moment, he pulled himself back into the coach, sitting just inside the open side. A murderer or two might do, but they’d be harder to get outside the city walls. He and Vincent both would prefer someone who was already traveling out there at night, a smuggler or a spy.

“Does it tire you?” Sephiroth said, interrupting his thoughts. The other man was studying him. Not like how Genesis had been, as if he was something between a game of chess and a bird just evading the net. The stare was wary and almost angry. “Working on us—our bindings.”

He was remembering something else, looking at Cloud, most likely. “Not that much. Anyway, I can afford it right now.”

Genesis moved on the roof, but failed to appear. After a glance in that direction, Sephiroth finally pushed off the wheel and offered his wrists. “What’s the name of this demon?” he asked, when Cloud reached for him. “The one they used on us.”

“Jenova.” Cloud felt the man stiffen. “You’ve heard of her?”

“I’ve been told she’s my mother,” Sephiroth said after a long pause. “But you said I had human parents.”

“I’d know if you hadn’t. You’d have been known to my father’s court,” Cloud said. He relaxed as the spellwork began to twine around his hands.

He’d never been much good with magic before he’d died, strangely enough. Most demonspawn showed some signs, shapeshifting or necromancy or a bloodthirsty attitude, at least. It was funny that he’d turned out to be so good at it, after all. If he could do more of his work this way, he’d probably like it better.

“Who’s your father?” Sephiroth asked.

“That is incredibly rude,” Genesis called down to them. “Forgive him, he was brought up by priests.”

Sephiroth’s eyes flicked to the side ever so slightly. “I may need to test my sword on you,” he said.

“Do hurry up, Cloud.” And Genesis’ face finally appeared over the edge of the coach, huffing and far more genuine than before. “I haven’t had the opportunity to trim this one’s ego for two _years_.”

“You’re friends,” Cloud said, looking at them. They both startled; Sephiroth’s face turned stony, while Genesis pulled his hands under himself. “Strife. That’s my family name.”

“Cloud…Strife,” Sephiroth said. He looked at his wrists in Cloud’s hands. “Thank you.”

He would have remembered this one, Cloud thought, and was surprised at the bitterness of the thought. It had been a long time since he’d cared, despite Tifa’s best efforts. “You don’t owe me thanks.”

“Then I’ll do my best to be worthy bait,” Sephiroth said, looking down at him. He was serious.

Cloud dropped the man’s hands. “I’ll finish later,” he said. “Your duel will have to wait.”

* * *

The last time they’d been in Old Corel, they’d just come off a difficult trip near the ruins of Nibelheim. Tifa had had nightmares that the ghosts of the villagers had come back, even though she knew very well that couldn’t happen when Cloud had eaten all their souls. Short of sleep and sunk into her own thoughts, she’d been snapping at Cloud the whole time and had almost missed the rogue priest that had disrupted their fight, and nearly sent Cloud back as well as the demon.

They’d barely dragged themselves out of the mountains, and had spent their time in Old Corel mostly in bed, healing. The last day, Vincent had had one of his acolytes show her around, but she still hadn’t been in the mood and she remembered little except for the central market, and the local Shinra shrine, which had been built on the remains of an older temple to the underworld and which still had distinctive black granite halls.

The black granite hadn’t gone anywhere, but Tifa knew there was supposed to be something else, some kind of…statue or marker. 

“There you are,” said a warm male voice, while a hand fell heavily on her shoulder. “Almost didn’t see—uf!”

Tifa turned around, then put down her fist. “Oh. Reno.”

“It’s a fucking temple,” Reno wheezed, on his knees with his arms wrapped around himself. “Sanctuary, man. Sanctuary for the weak and helpless.”

Beside him, Cissnei rolled her eyes. “Sorry. Heard you were coming in, Lockheart. Where’s Cloud?”

“Outside with the coach and our—our guests.” Tifa nodded at the heavy bag slung over her shoulder. “We’re going to have to sneak them in.”

Reno sprang lightly to his feet, looking eager. “Damn, I was hoping all that leather was for me. At least tell me they’re just as pretty?”

Tifa wasn’t in the mood, and just stared at him till Cissnei dragged him into whatever hidden doorway they’d used to find her. Then she walked out the main door. She paused to help an elderly petitioner up the last step, then headed for the back gate.

Cissnei and Reno caught up just before the gatehouse and whisked her down a smelly but mostly dry sewer. Corel being an old fortress that had exchanged hands several times, the ground under the city was peppered with abandoned siege tunnels. Why the walls had never collapsed was likely a secret known only to Vincent and the smugglers who also used the tunnels, but it was handy for sneaking in three still widely-recognized men.

By the time they made it back to the coach, Tifa had given the other two a brief sketch of events, and Reno had gotten over himself enough to assume a vaguely bored expression. “Hey, General, Commander.”

Sephiroth and Genesis were both outside of the coach. They’d been sitting on the edge of the open side, but had risen as Tifa as the others had approached. “The Turks?” Sephiroth said, brows raised. “You brought us to the Turks?”

“Nah, no such thing now,” Reno said. “Discharged and all that.”

“You missed the purge,” Cissnei said, suddenly icy and stiff.

“Discharged with a vengeance,” Reno added, smiling, his lazy sway like the bob of a snake readying to strike.

Angeal’s prone form could just be seen past Sephiroth, and Nanaki had padded up but had stopped short at the posturing. Tifa closed her eyes for a moment, then frowned. She let the bag slide off her shoulder and put her hand on the laces holding it shut, then shook her head hard. Then she yanked them open and dug inside till she got hold of something. She pulled it out and tossed it at the coach without looking to see who caught it, or who it should’ve gone to. Damn it.

“He—” Genesis snagged the red coat just before it would have struck Sephiroth in the face “—he said he’d meet you in the city. You remembered. How thoughtful.”

“Please go stick your head in a dragon mouth,” Tifa snapped. Her fingers scraped the empty bottom of the bag a few times before it sunk in. She squatted over it for a few seconds, then took a few deep, long breaths.

“Tifa?” Cissnei tried uncertainly. “Is Strife coming?”

“He’s going to meet us in the city. Apparently.” Tifa scrunched the canvas between her fingers, then sighed again and began to fold up the bag. “Hewley’s still asleep?”

Sephiroth seemed to find the black coat Tifa had bought for him acceptable, knotting the sleeves and then ducking his head into the loop so the rest hung down his back. “We shouldn’t wake him. The mottling is coming back on his side.”

“Well?” Tifa looked at Cissnei, who looked at Reno, who complained loudly about the dire state of his life.

They cut open the bag and made a sling out of it to carry Hewley—or rather, Tifa and Reno did. Neither Sephiroth nor Genesis could help, with their hands still bound and a maze of underground tunnels to navigate, so Cissnei persuaded them to go ahead with her. Nanaki stayed back with the coach; Cissnei promised that she’d send someone as soon as she could to help Nanaki move it to a more secluded location.

Reno grumbled only until Sephiroth and Genesis were out of sight, and then he shut up. He needed to save his breath. Angeal Hewley was not an easy burden, even with more than mortal strength, and the tunnels they had to take seemed to twist every other step. They went up, down, sideways, possibly all three at the same time, and finally emerged in a familiar cellar.

“So what’s up?” The moment he could, Reno dropped his end and squatted down, breathing hard. “I smell blackmail and backstabbing, babe.”

“Then you should wash your clothes more often,” Tifa muttered. She snorted when Reno laughed. He was annoying, but he did wear people down into respecting his tenacity. “Cloud’s hunting one of the elders. These three were former vessels, so we’re holding onto them. Also, we need a priestess from the Temple of the Ancients so Hewley doesn’t die first.”

Reno rubbed his mouth, then the side of his neck, right over the thin white scars. Then he scratched the thicker scars under his eyes. “Shit. You don’t ask for much.”

People were hurrying around overhead, so Sephiroth and Genesis must have already arrived. Vincent Valentine’s house was not somewhere you just ran around, and that was before he’d begun taking in Turks. Tifa moved to call for someone, but stopped when she heard Hewley groaning.

He didn’t look nearly as bad as when they’d pulled him out of Hollander’s tower, but the mottling was back. If he’d spent more time resting and less time nagging her, Tifa couldn’t help thinking, maybe it would have been a little longer in between. He didn’t even understand, anyway. The people in Nibelheim hadn’t been bad people. Hard workers and bums and drunkards and thrifty mechanics, bullies and flirts and just people, like anywhere else. Till they’d gotten scared. You never really knew whether a person was good or bad till you had their soul.

“…not going to be back for a week, sorry, Shinra’s sniffing around the mines again and we had something going on that we couldn’t take down in a hurry. He’ll be sorry he missed out.” Reno offered her a wineskin he’d pulled out from somewhere. “So Elena, me, don’t know if having Lazard along would help. I mean, he has been there a couple times, and I _guess_ he’d be better off out than reminiscing here with the General—”

Tifa stared at the wineskin. “Reno, you are _not_ coming. The Temple’s a place of purity.”

“Yeah, virgin priests and priestesses, all that,” Reno said, grinning.

“You’d fry on the outer wards like a moth in a candle flame,” Tifa muttered. She shoved away his hand and went to go find someone competent.

Halfway up the stairs, Cloud tingled on the edge of her consciousness. She slowed for a few steps, then jogged up the rest of the way. Either Sephiroth or Genesis had said something upsetting, she’d figured out that much, but that still didn’t excuse Cloud running off without a word to her. And if he ran off again, she wasn’t going to wait around. She’d damn well _call_ him, otherwise what good was being a priestess?

* * *

The entire place was full of Turks. Turks who delivered Angeal to them on a soft litter, Turks who set a table in their spacious, well-lit room with fruits and fresh water and cold meats, Turks who drew them a hot bath and then discreetly withdrew.

“At least one of Shinra’s get is around, too,” Genesis said, rumpling a towel over his head. He stepped out of the bath and came over to the bed, looking Sephiroth over. “I think you’ll have to cut them out.”

“I can’t pick up the knives.” Sephiroth picked desultorily at the knot in his hair. The tangles had been less terrible than expected, but there was still a mass of his hair the size of a small dog in the tub, and several knots that resisted all attempts to undo them. “I tried. My hands seize up.”

Genesis paused. “Right. You frightened Cloud off and he didn’t finish.”

He dropped the towel and kicked it into the corner, then made his way to the table. After some dithering, he selected a small carving knife and returned to the bed.

“Well?” he said.

“Stop fantasizing about my death, Rhapsodos,” Sephiroth said. “You never mastered me in hand-to-hand, either.”

“As if I’d do Angeal the indignity of having to share a bed with your corpse,” Genesis snorted. He slid up to Sephiroth’s left side and flicked through Sephiroth’s hair before scooping up a knot. “I think it’s Rufus, but can’t rule out Lazard. Or Goddess knows, perhaps it’s both. It’s the season for reunions, it seems.”

Sephiroth absently tugged at his collar, then caught himself and immediately dropped his hands. However far Cloud had gotten, he’d undone enough for Sephiroth to feel the binding spells slithering over and around him, like a film on his skin that he couldn’t wash off. It made him restless, and the presence of so many Turks hardly helped matters. Not to mention—perhaps Cloud hadn’t thought of it, as he did seem to have a strange disregard for the Shinra rule and everything to do with it, but Tifa certainly should have known that they wouldn’t welcome the Turks. That was common enough knowledge.

“You’re not going to ask me how a Shinra heir could have survived when Nanaki was quite clear that they’d been executed?” Genesis eventually said. He never could suffer silence for long.

“They’re demons, naturally.” What had he said? Taking offense at Genesis, Sephiroth could understand. The man could rival a Turk for convoluted, when that only insulted one’s intelligence. But Sephiroth had merely stated what would have to occur anyway, if Cloud wanted a successful capture.

Genesis sighed loudly and tossed the last silver knot to the floor. He toyed with the knife a little before also dropping that over the side of the bed. “Insults aside, Sephiroth.”

“Yes?”

“Our grand and former liege lord decided to execute his heirs by chaining them out on a wasteland for the beasts,” Genesis said. “And apparently, a beast found them, and the Turks that followed, once the king decided to replace his entire household. Vincent Valentine’s our current host.”

The name took a moment to fully connect to a memory. It had been before Sephiroth’s birth and a well-buried scandal, given that the king’s mistress—then pregnant with the only known Shinra progeny—had nearly miscarried from the fright. “He died in a disaster with a summons experiment.”

“Not quite. He’s the demon. Or demons. I’m given to understand that he essentially functions as a walking summons for three or four. I don’t think that those he’s taken in are demons themselves, or even up to Cloud’s level, but they’re certainly unnatural.” An edge entered Genesis’ voice. He paused for breath when he didn’t need it, and had begun to knead the mattress with his hands. “Perhaps we should compare notes?”

He was starting to shake. When Sephiroth pressed a hand to his neck, checking for an elevated temperature, Genesis shoved him roughly back. Genesis’ eyes darted to the floor and Sephiroth threw the circle of his arms around the other man just in time to hold back his lunge for the knife.

Sephiroth dragged them off the bed and clear of Angeal, but Genesis slewed them into the wall with his weight. His knee slammed into Sephiroth’s thigh, dangerously high, and he left stinging scratches across Sephiroth’s arms. Then he twisted around, his hands going for Sephiroth’s face. Sephiroth ducked and swung them into the wall. He cracked his hip, shoulder and elbow, unavoidably, but Genesis came away with dazed eyes and blood dripping down his face. Genesis stopped fighting long enough for Sephiroth to pin his hands between their chests.

“You are.” He closed and opened his eyes. One of his pupils was smaller than the other, but as Sephiroth stared at them, they slowly equalized. “You are a _terrible_ hero.”

“What is the matter with you?” Sephiroth snapped. His voice rose sharply and he shut his mouth, startled.

Laughing harshly, Genesis pulled roughly at his hands. When Sephiroth only leaned more weight on them, he twisted the laugh into a vicious snarl. “Get _off_. I’m not going to kill you. I don’t even know if I _can_ kill you. I don’t know if we can die now, for the Goddess’ sake. Nobody else seems to be.”

Sephiroth pressed his lips together, then stood back enough to allow Genesis his hands. The other man reached up and touched the blood at his temple; the skin had already knit, but the bruises and swelling seemed likely to persist. Then he lowered his hands, rubbing the blood between his fingers.

“I wish Angeal would stop surrendering to his guilt long enough to have a decent conversation,” Genesis murmured, looking at his fingers. “I know you were raised by insane ascetics, but sometimes you defy all sense.”

“I don’t know what you want,” Sephiroth finally said. “Do you want me to lose my mind again?”

“Are you going to?” Genesis looked up. He was angry, and then he was simply tired, slumping back into the wall. “No, that’s how they caught us last time. You never make the same mistake twice.”

Sephiroth shifted his hands against the wall, then pushed them up, so he could lift his arms from around Genesis. Anger flashed back into Genesis’ eyes and he grabbed Sephiroth’s jaw like he meant to tear it off.

Instead he pulled Sephiroth back to him, locking their mouths with sharp teeth. His foot slid up Sephiroth’s calf, dragging their bodies into line, then stabbed into Sephiroth’s ankle; his toenails likely drew blood. Sephiroth shoved him into the wall again, head up against Sephiroth’s hands so he could pry Genesis off his mouth. Genesis snapped his teeth just short of Sephiroth’s lip, then hissed and bucked as Sephiroth reapplied his mouth to the man’s throat.

Someone groaned. Then again, too far away for it to be Genesis. Grimacing, Sephiroth pulled back and looked over his shoulder. Angeal’s eyes were still tightly shut, but he was beginning to move. Short jerky motions, head down to the chest—a nightmare.

Wet fingertips touched the side of Sephiroth’s face. He turned back and Genesis stroked his mouth with a bloody thumb, then leaned up and drew the blood off with his lips as gently as he would turn the pages of a book.

“You could tell me you find at least a little of this disquieting,” Genesis said, dipping out of Sephiroth’s hold. “Usually the first sign we have that you’re upset is that half the place is on fire, and I’d like at least one night in a real bed before that happens.”

“You could try to refrain from irrelevant attacks until they cure Angeal.” Sephiroth watched the other man bend over the bed, trying to shake Angeal out of it. “I haven’t heard a thing since they freed us.”

It wasn’t strictly true. But the…hum, those few times around Cloud, it hadn’t been a distinct voice.

Genesis gave up on shaking and simply curled himself over Angeal, mindful of his injured side. “Do you think the bindings have anything to do with that?”

“I don’t see any reason why Hojo would have wanted to thwart her from communicating with us,” Sephiroth said. He picked up the cast-off knots of his hair and Genesis’ towel, and dropped them in a metal pot at the side of the room. Then he took hold of the rug carrying the knife and moved it to that side as well. “The entire point was to have her consume us.”

“Not so attractive an idea now?”

“My soul is my own,” Sephiroth eventually said. He returned to the bed. They should dress. If a Turk wasn’t already being entertained by their fighting, one would doubtless be along shortly. At any rate, they should go out and find Tifa or Cloud if neither came to them within the hour. “She neglected to mention that part of the plan.”

Genesis sighed and rested his head on Angeal’s shoulder. Angeal seemed quieter now, although his hands were still clenched in the bedding. “I suppose I should raise the possibility that Strife is lying.”

“He rejected me,” Sephiroth said, and raised his brows at the odd look Genesis gave him. “And you. I don’t think so. He may not be entirely forthcoming of his motives, but I don’t think he wants anything to do with collecting us.”

“Very well,” Genesis said. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then patently changed his mind about his direction. “Then, our multiplicity of Turks, and once-dead Shinra get. An entire purge of the inner household, and a reclusive high priest.”

That, at least, was a simple enough puzzle. “If there’s been any coup, it’s Hojo replacing the king. If Jenova is there, Cloud should be willing enough to take us along.”

* * *

With his wings fully extended, Chaos filled nearly a third of the room. The tips of his horns scraped at the gilded ceiling, occasionally setting loose a fine shower of gold, while the weight of his hooves left spiderwork fractures in the tile floor.

“I have noticed greater activity in the Midgar area, and recently the Shinra have stepped up prospecting for new mines,” he rumbled, shifting slowly from one haunch to the other. His right wing flexed slightly and the resulting chill breeze set the torches to guttering. “Not only mythril, but also moonstones and black opals and orichalc. They have not come here, but they have sent men into the North Corel range. And they have imposed a new tithe, of men and of livestock.”

He’d eaten recently. His skin was a rich purplish-black and it strained tightly at every movement, as if ready to burst. His mood was good. “You believe it’s connected?” Cloud said. “Shinra has always been willing to deal with the Dark, but they’ve never allied themselves with an exile before. They’re conservative. They hold to elders like my father.”

“The high priest, Hojo, he’s dared to press beyond his sphere before.” Chaos abruptly snapped his wings behind himself. A brazier toppled over in the backdraft and spilled a line of glowing coals between them; eyes flaring even brighter than them, Chaos tipped himself into a crouch and bent his head to scent the coals. The sparks showering up from them wreathed his horns with garlands of red and gold. “He’s known to your new devotees.”

Cloud started.

“I will not tell your father,” Chaos said, and bared ebony teeth the size of hunting knives in a wide, amused smile. “I wish to pursue _my_ quarrel with Jenova, not his. I will leave you her head and her wings as trophies to present to him.”

“You said you haven’t sensed her,” Cloud said sharply. “We know she’s been here, but we don’t know where she is now.”

The coals flamed white, then shrank into dull grey clumps. Under the ashes the terracotta tiles had turned black and glassy. Chaos licked one and steam gusted up, while the tile cracked like a whip. “As you say, it is likely she will come for them. She has not yet failed to devour a child of hers. I agree to your plan. I will watch, and will guard where necessary. You will find her base of power, and her priests, if any, and you will point the way.”

“Thank you,” Cloud finally said.

Chaos smiled again. His hooves made the timbers of the room tremble, as he uncoiled forward, claws sinking into the obsidian patches as if they were butter. “They are good, strong novices,” he said. His purr was the tumble of rocks ahead of an avalanche. “They have vengeance and hatred on their minds. I would be pleased to see you steal them away from her.”

His muzzle dipped towards Cloud and before he could help himself, Cloud stepped back. It was too hot in the room, too hot and too small, and his skin felt dried out, on the verge of splitting. Something just underneath twisted restlessly. When Cloud bit his tongue, it bit back, sending him into a violent shiver.

The red of Chaos’ eyes dimmed slightly. He turned his head back and forth, then pulled himself liquidly back into his corner. “We are not in your father’s court,” he said. “You did not thank me then, and I did not promise to leave you and yours untouched.”

“They are not mine, or hers. They weren’t willing, by their account,” Cloud said slowly.

“They can be. May be.” Chaos laughed, snapping his fangs while his thin black tongue flickered in and out between them. “Very well. My host is unsettled and I must go. I will buy your debt from the dead riders, Strife. Speak to Valentine. I will also respect her get, and you may speak to them, or not, as you please.”

A stiff, sulfurous wind whirled around the room, spinning up gold dust and ashes into a stinging haze. His arm over his eyes, Cloud fumbled back till he touched the far wall. He held his breath till the wind had died down, then wiped his eyes and nose and mouth with his glove.

There was a soft knock behind him. He looked over his shoulder, then sighed and reached over to unlatch the door. Tseng was there, with a pile of neatly-folded clothing in his arms, and behind him stood Elena and Tifa.

“Where have you been?” Tifa said, her arms crossed over her chest.

Tseng looked at her, at Cloud, and then stepped into the room. He paused, looking at the naked body on the floor, and then passed the clothing back to Elena. Then he went over to Vincent, pulling his tail of hair over one shoulder. He had a bandage that started about the middle of his neck and ran down into his coat, and when he pulled that off, he revealed a mass of criss-crossing cuts on his arms.

“Damn it, Cloud.” Tifa kicked the side of the door, then turned on Elena. “What?”

“Nothing.” Elena dithered, torn between curiosity and disapproval, then shrugged and went to go tend Vincent.

“He said—” Cloud started. He pushed himself up against the other side of the door, rubbing one hand over his hip, then his side. His skin still felt over-stretched, brittle. Part of him was _glad_ there was a hunt tonight, that there’d be someone to kill.

To her credit, Tifa didn’t press him immediately. She kicked the door again, more half-hearted, and then sighed. In the middle of the room, Elena looked up. Tseng didn’t, but his shoulders hitched more than they needed to for him to lever Vincent’s mouth up to his neck. Vincent was beginning to stir, his armored arm gripping the loosened folds of Tseng’s coat.

“Which one,” she finally said. She looked at Cloud, then lifted her arm. Her hand was an inch or so short of him, and it hovered uncertainly before she took the needed step. Then she sighed again, into his shoulder. Her body was warm, like a fur hung before the hearth, and it…eased the strain, made it soften. “Chaos was in a mood?”

“He reminded me of something.” Cloud shook his head. “He said something, and it was like something…I heard before. You know, before.”

Tifa said nothing, but she leaned harder on him for a moment. Then she let him go. Her sleeve brushed his arm and he looked over, surprised. He hadn’t thought he’d been that long with Chaos, but she’d had time to change into Corel garb: a close-fitting, long-sleeved silk tunic over cotton leggings, and under a slim silk and leather coat, same as Elena and Tseng. Except where they were black with touches of scarlet, Tifa was in charcoal and white ash.

“You should tell Nanaki, at least, instead of Rhapsodos,” Tifa said.

“Sorry.” Cloud reached out and touched her shoulder when she went to go. “Chaos got to Yuffie. She’ll be by tomorrow, and after Vincent and I hunt tonight, I can fix the bindings so they can fight for themselves.”

Tifa cocked her head. “Are you going to leave them here? I thought you’d stay while I went to the Temple.”

“They shouldn’t leave, at least not till we know where Jenova is,” Cloud said. “Chaos thinks she’s in Midgar. He said Shinra is sending miners into North Corel.”

“Rude’s there.” Tseng remained on his knees, wrapping up his throat. His fingers were trembling enough to make the end of the bandage skip and dance. “The only one right now. We decided to pull out. Too hard to stay unnoticed.”

“For you,” Tifa said. She didn’t say it with any malice and Tseng merely nodded, although Elena bit her lip. “That’s about as far from here as the Temple is. Hewley can’t travel, and I guess they wouldn’t want to leave until he’s well, but…”

“Chaos said he’d watch them.” Vincent stood up, still only half-dressed, his red robe gaping to show scarred legs. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then wiped his hand on the handkerchief Elena offered him. He looked as pale and tired as Chaos had looked dark and robust. “We’ll meet in an hour. Cloud. Tifa. Elena.”

Elena started, then moved stiffly to the door. She angled her body to push Cloud and Tifa out into the hall, but then she had to turn to pull the door fully into its frame. In the sliver of room that showed beyond her, the red robe fluttered over Tseng’s shoulders.

“Well, do you want to see where your rooms are?” Elena said.

* * *

Vincent always gave Cloud and Tifa the same rooms. Up on the southern side, with a shared balcony and easy access to both the roof and to a secret passage that wound through the walls directly to the cellars, but a good solid wall between them. Sometimes Tifa thought Chaos was mocking them. Sometimes, like today, she was almost grateful. She wasn’t really mad at Cloud now, not after what he’d said—she _was_ mad at whichever of those three idiots had triggered him, and her money was on Rhapsodos. 

She’d be mad at Chaos, too, but they needed him for a lot more than just one mission. Besides, even if he never would tell her, he knew when he was upsetting Cloud and what over. Those three ex-Shinra generals probably didn’t even notice.

“So what’s going on?” Elena burrowed across the bed till her head was just resting against Tifa’s hip, the pillowy mattress slowly rising back up around their bodies. She’d shed her coat and boots, and when Tifa looked down, Elena looked back with wide eyes, her fingers slowly nipping open the fastenings that ran down her arm from shoulder to wrist. “You and Strife have another fight?”

“Really not your business,” Tifa said. She pushed herself up on one arm. “Just how often has Chaos been coming through, lately?”

“Not your business, either,” Elena said, a touch of resentment coming through the naïveté. Her fingers stilled on the bandage wound around her forearm. Then she snorted and wiggled across Tifa’s legs. She tugged her wrist free of the sleeve and the front of her tunic swung open till it was barely hanging onto her other shoulder. Underneath she just had some cotton wraps around her breasts. “Oh, come on. Reno said you wanted me and him for a trip to the Temple of the Ancients. You can’t be like this the whole way, not unless you want a mess like the other time. Sometimes you and Strife might as well be twins, the way you act.”

Tifa pulled her knee up to push warningly into Elena’s back. “Well, stop acting like you’re still working for the king. Vincent knows what’s going on.”

“Stop pretending like you don’t know Valentine keeps us in the dark,” Elena snapped. She laid there, stiff and angry, and then pushed herself off Tifa.

When Tifa reached for her, Elena stiff-armed the hand. Tifa inhaled sharply, then lunged for the other woman.

Elena got her in the upper thigh and shoulder, but Tifa had driven low enough for them to only be glancing blows. She shoved Elena down on her back, then swore as something sharp tore into her upper left arm. Tifa hissed, then jammed her shoulder into Elena’s mouth, hard enough to crack Elena’s head back into the mattress. She yanked herself free, then pressed her right gauntlet across Elena’s throat. Elena kneed her again and Tifa just spread her legs so she was pinning both of the other woman’s.

“Ow,” Elena gasped. Her fangs slid in, then out, then in. She blinked a few times. “Ow. All right. All right. I’m sorry.”

Tifa didn’t let her up. Elena’s tunic was off her except for the left sleeve up to the elbow—they’d torn some of the fastenings in the tussle—and her breast-bindings were loose. When Tifa rolled her hips, Elena’s deep breath pushed her right breast up enough for the nipple to slip out.

“We just made the bed,” Elena said. Her eyes ran up Tifa’s arm to Tifa’s shoulder. “And there goes your new shirt. You’re bleeding all over the place.”

“You’re showing,” Tifa said, and leaned down to lick along the edges of Elena’s teeth, in between the tips of her fangs.

They kissed once, then pulled apart, Elena to suck on Tifa’s shoulder, Tifa to press her face into the top of Elena’s breast. Elena smelled like dust, leather, cloves. Some other spice, something that prickled high inside Tifa’s nose. She kneaded the side of Elena’s breast with her hand, then mouthed down the inner curve, digging the bindings out of the way with her nails. Elena arched and swung her leg across Tifa’s back, then chewed Tifa’s shoulder a little when Tifa squirmed her hand down between their bellies.

Wincing, Tifa pulled her arm back out. She shoved the leather underside of her gauntlet into Elena’s mouth—it was dragonhide, it wouldn’t pierce—and then shifted her weight over so she could reach with her other hand. Her hip slid too far, hit Elena’s arm; Elena flicked her wrist and the blow nearly sent Tifa sliding off the other side. Impatient, fed up, Tifa jammed her knees under Elena’s thighs, levered them up. She took the gauntlet on her free hand off with her teeth, listening to Elena’s muffled, urgent cursing, and then scratched her way into the other woman’s leggings.

She let her head fall back between Elena’s breasts and pushed in two fingers. Elena was already slick and it felt too easy, didn’t make Elena writhe enough for the lingering edge to Tifa’s mood. She added a third, curled her thumb up under Elena’s clit, let her mouth ride over Elena’s chest till it lipped a scar high up on Elena’s shoulder. When she bit it, Elena clapped her knees around Tifa so tight that Tifa couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, had to let go, lift her head and slam it back into the other woman’s chest.

Myrrh. That was it. Tifa blinked, swaying on top of the other woman, still smelling it. She pulled the gauntlet from Elena’s mouth and Elena sprawled out under her. Jagged tear on the upper lip where the metal guard had caught her, a drop of blood flicked across her brow, just over the left eye, fine blond hair in a swirl above that. Elena’s fangs dropped out a little with every heaving breath she took. She was staring at Tifa, her hand limp on Tifa’s hip.

Tifa pushed herself up a little. Elena’s eyes fell, came back up. Her tongue curled, pink and human, around one fang. She pressed her shoulders back, let her leg slide from around Tifa’s waist, and pushed up her throat as Tifa put her hand between her own legs and dug one knuckle into her clit till she came. Elena watched, and when Tifa jerked too far, lost her balance, she put out her hand and caught Tifa’s shoulder, easing her down.

“Spice quarter?” Tifa muttered. She twisted her hand out of her leggings, then grunted and pulled at the cloth till she was bared to mid-thigh. Whole outfit, ruined. She’d have to change anyway for the Temple, find some kind of skirt she could fight in. They were much more traditional in that area. “Why spices?”

“Debt collection.” Elena nudged at Tifa’s shoulder with her chin, then licked at something. Some blood she’d missed, probably. “More money in that than in gems here, now. City’s turned into a trading post. All the active mines are north.”

Tifa took a few breaths, then pulled the leggings the rest of the way off and wiped her fingers off on them. Something caught her eye and she looked back at Elena, then reached out. She hadn’t even touched the scar when Elena flinched, hurt and angry and then trying hard to be calm.

It looked pretty fresh. Too red to be just Tifa. “Reno said you _and_ him?” she said instead.

A little of the tension ebbed from Elena. Just enough for her to snort and let Tifa rest two fingers on the scar. “I _thought_ that sounded wrong. But why do you want a priestess from there, anyway? That does sound like something he’d come up with.”

“It’s not for me, it’s for Hewley,” Tifa muttered. She swung her leg over, then rolled onto her back. Elena had healed her skin, but the tears in her tunic were still damp and stuck unpleasantly to her arm. She reached up and started to undo the shoulder seam. “He came out the worse from a possession, and since we need him and the other two to track down the demon who possessed him, we have to.”

Elena hummed and draped her arm over Tifa. She rested for a moment, then walked her hand over and pushed Tifa’s out of the way, and took over undoing Tifa’s sleeve.

“Did you know any of them?” Tifa asked. Elena’s fingers stilled and Tifa closed her eyes. “Cloud used to idolize Sephiroth. And I had to explain to him who they were, when we found them.”

“Not really. I’d barely started training when they disappeared,” Elena said after a pause. “I always heard that Hewley was the nicest.”

“I don’t like him.” Tifa opened her eyes, then put her hand up and rubbed at them. She hadn’t thought she was all that tired, but now that she had a bed and it was warm, and comfortable, and not all that much of a mess, surprisingly enough, she wanted to sleep. Just turn over, curl up around the soft body next to her.

She and Elena weren’t that close. She got along better with Cissnei, who understood that even though they were all sworn to Valentine now—to Chaos, really—Tifa still didn’t trust them. The shock of having their liege lord turn on them and order their death hadn’t shaken them up enough; they were still Turks, just following a different leader, as if that was all that had changed. But Elena just seemed to be around when Tifa got tired. 

And she always turned into Tifa like that, like she was just as desperate for somewhere to hide for a while. Ever since the first time, up against the bloody wall of an attic, the used-up corpse of a twelve-year-old at their feet while Cloud and Vincent were off taking care of the rogue demon that’d appropriated it. It wasn’t that she wasn’t brave, because she was. She’d fight whatever fight she was ordered to. But she wanted to lay her head on somebody’s shoulder sometimes, and so far, as far as Tifa could tell, she hadn’t told anyone that Tifa wanted to do the same.

“I don’t trust him, or Sephiroth or Rhapsodos, either,” Tifa said. “The demon we’re hunting, she’s called Jenova and she’s one of the very oldest. And we’re not telling Cloud’s father about it yet.”

Elena let Tifa’s sleeve flap open, curling her fingers past the silk to clasp Tifa’s wrist. “The Shinra priesthood’s up to something big. Tseng thinks Chaos is trying to build up for the fight. It’s just—I don’t think Chaos and Vincent agree about it, and they’re fighting each other. Sometimes we don’t see Vincent for days.” She paused, then began to sit up. “I was glad to see you show up, since Chaos at least likes Cloud.”

“I don’t like that either,” Tifa muttered. She laid there for a second longer, then rolled off the bed and onto her feet. “Can I borrow something?”

“Well, I’ll look,” Elena said, with a faintly put-upon tone. “Your visits are so expensive, and I guess you won’t be taking side jobs till this is done. I swear, you owe us more than Reno.”

Tifa rolled her eyes. She pulled off her shirt and tossed it at Elena, who batted it off with an outraged exclamation. The other woman opened up the nearest wardrobe with a huff, still grumbling even when Tifa stepped up behind her and ran one hand down her bare back. But she started plucking through tunics and blouses, and when Tifa rested her hand at Elena’s hip, Elena leaned back for a moment. Then she started talking about the trip to the Temple. Back to business.

* * *

Corel garments, fortuitously, fastened along the shoulders and the arms, which allowed Sephiroth to dress despite having bound wrists. He managed the shirt himself, but was forced to seek Genesis’ aid with the coat. A strip torn from one of the bedsheets served to bind his hair into a serviceable tail, though even looped twice back on itself, it still hung down to his mid-back. Genesis offered to cut it off for him, then retreated like a coward to the safety of Angeal’s sleeping form. Sephiroth was looking for some sort of dark cloth to cover it when Cloud returned.

With him Cloud brought one of the Turks and a small case that proved to be full of lancets and trocars. “He needs to be drained again,” he said. “I thought I’d do it properly.”

“You know how to use those?” Genesis snapped, hunched over Angeal.

“If not, I doubt he would have brought them,” Sephiroth said. He met Genesis’ demanding look, then gestured for Cloud to proceed.

As it turned out, it was the Turk who wielded the surgical instruments, a fact that gave both Genesis and Sephiroth pause. But by then Cloud already had his palm against Angeal’s side and was drawing up the poison, causing Angeal to move restlessly against the bed. Genesis reluctantly gave up his position, shifting to let the Turk pass and to put himself within easy reach of the open case. Cloud didn’t seem to notice but the Turk certainly did, working with precise and efficient movements. He had the trocar out the second Cloud opened his mouth, and a wad of sealant-soaked gauze by the time Cloud had finished telling him to pull out. A minute later, he and the case were gone.

Angeal had woken halfway through the procedure, but had had enough awareness to not lash out. He sat up as the Turk departed, taking in their surroundings.

“I missed a few things,” he finally said.

“Only the resurrection of a few useless cast-offs from the Shinra inner guard,” Genesis retorted.

Sephiroth took that to mean the other man was volunteering to bring Angeal up to speed, and tracked Cloud as he carried a double handful of bloodied gauze across the room. A large set of double doors there opened onto a balcony to an inner courtyard, which quickly emptied. At least two of the departed were watching from behind conveniently-placed statuary, while a third soon emerged on the roof.

Cloud dropped the gauze on the balcony floor, then snapped his fingers. Just as in the cave, the gauze crumbled to a powdery ash.

“What are you drawing out of him?” Sephiroth asked.

The other man masked a flinch, not quite quickly enough for Sephiroth to miss the unfocused eyes. Less powerful mages often retreated mentally to concentrate, but from what he’d seen so far, Cloud had no need of such crutches. 

“When you’re possessed, especially by an elder demon,” Cloud said slowly, carefully, as if he was working in an unfamiliar language. “They can leave—traces. Like an infected wound. The infection comes after the blade has come out. That’s why we’ll need a priestess of the Ancients. They can scour out what Jenova left.”

Sephiroth had never heard it put in such terms, but he’d seen a few corpses left by demonic possession, and had noted their unusually quick degradation. “And what’s Valentine’s price for that?”

Cloud turned and looked up at him, eyes wide with confusion. Then he laughed. It was not condescending; strangely enough, he seemed sympathetic. “Vincent can’t go within a mile of the Temple of the Ancients. Neither can I. Because we’re…it’d be a mess. Tifa’s going with some of Vincent’s acolytes.”

“Acolytes?” Sephiroth said. Then he stiffened.

After a moment, without a flicker in his composure, Cloud took Sephiroth’s wrists in his hands. Magic spilled out of Sephiroth’s bindings in a flurry of loops and curls and Sephiroth lost a few seconds watching. It took an entire temple of priests to make a spell visible in the same manner; even Sephiroth couldn’t undertake such a working without laying himself out for the whole day. And Cloud did it as if it were a schoolboy’s lesson. A small, quiet show, speaking louder than the collapse of a tower fortress.

“Vincent anchors an elder called Chaos,” Cloud said. He frowned and tilted Sephiroth’s hands, then shook his head slightly. Then he let them go and reached for Sephiroth’s throat.

The spellwork in the collar came out before Sephiroth could move, holding him in place as firmly as any chains. He smoothed his breathing and lowered his arms.

“Chaos is the patron of outlaws and vendettas,” Cloud went on, as if nothing had happened. “He doesn’t have offspring, but he does take on…acolytes. They get some of his power and they pay him a tithe of blood.”

“Do you pay a tithe?” Sephiroth asked. He felt Cloud’s withdrawal and seized the man’s right arm before he’d fully thought it through.

Cloud stopped, his hands still tangled in the spells. His fingers flexed and the magic tightened around Sephiroth, sending darts of pain down his legs and into the backs of his eyes. Then he—twisted something—and his hands came free and the binding magic slid back into the collar. It was…lighter.

“I withdraw the question,” Sephiroth said. He made to move away, only to remember he still had hold of Cloud’s arm. He released it, rubbing his hands together afterward, an unwelcome heat passing over his face. It’d been a very long time since he’d suffered genuine embarrassment.

“I don’t owe Vincent, if that’s what you’re asking.” Cloud reached up and undid his shoulder guard, then twisted out one of the gems. “Chaos and the other elders that sit in him are…I rank with them.” He shifted on his feet and Sephiroth belatedly recognized it as a nervous gesture. “It’s—in my father’s court, it’s—we can trade favors.”

“I am grateful to you,” Sephiroth said, watching the other man. “If you don’t wish to treat it as a debt, I understand. But I think our goals coincide to a certain extent, and I would like to work towards mutual success. And…if there are other goals of yours that I can assist with, I am…I don’t appear to have other demands on my time.”

Cloud was still looking at the gem in his hand. A cabochon ruby, the size of his thumb and flickering intermittently with magic. “It’s—”

“And I understand that you may have reasons for being…silent on some subjects,” Sephiroth continued. “I don’t intend to—”

“I don’t really remember what happened when I was with my father,” Cloud said abruptly. He looked up and his eyes were glowing fiercely, almost bright enough to blind Sephiroth to the clenched jaw and knitted brows. “I just—know things. I know them, but I don’t remember how I learned them. That’s why I don’t talk about it. Here, you should eat this.”

And he shoved the gem into Sephiroth’s hands, then turned on his heel and went back into the room.

The ruby flared white and Sephiroth nearly threw it down, thinking it about to burn through his fingers. Except—it was—not cool to touch, but body-warm, its surface almost clinging to his skin, as if alive. The power inside the stone stirred and something inside him uncurled, insinuating, seeping heat from his gut.

Sephiroth shook himself roughly, then stalked inside. The moment Genesis opened his mouth, Sephiroth tossed the stone at him.

Genesis caught it before it caught him in the face. “Strife’s gone,” he said, peering at the ruby. “What on earth do you say to him? And what—”

“Eat it.” The table still bore platters of half-eaten food, with accompanying utensils. Sephiroth reached for the longest knife and was grimly pleased to find that his hands didn’t snap in on themselves in uncontrollable spasms. He tucked the knife into his left boot.

“It’s empty. You know that, don’t you?” Genesis said. “It used to be a summons—a fire-drake or eldjötnar—but…”

“Sephiroth,” Angeal said, placatingly. “What—”

“In the morning,” Sephiroth snapped, and left.

* * *

Vincent met Cloud and Tifa by the back gate. He didn’t have anyone with him, though Reno had sidled past Tifa far too casually only a few minutes before, and the windows closest to them were all lit. The red robe from before was gone, replaced with the familiar cape, but someone had braided his hair with black opals. The stones were dull, only roughly polished, but every so often one would catch a stray beam from the dying sun and then it would flare green, and Tifa would hear the moan of a trapped soul.

She turned from them before she could help herself, then tugged angrily at her gauntlets. That conversation with Hewley wouldn’t leave her, even though she’d meant what she said to him and hadn’t changed her mind since. She hadn’t chosen her service because she thought it was _better_ ; she’d chosen it because she’d looked into it and had seen what she wanted. Everyone and everything else had turned a blind eye.

“Northern fields,” Vincent said. When Tifa looked up, he was watching her. He gestured for her to go ahead, thankfully ignoring her flinch and flush.

Tifa started forward, then looked over her shoulder. Cloud was still leaning against a hitching post; he hadn’t said a word since she’d found him in the stables, staring into the blood pooling under a dead goat hanging from the rafters. He had to be hungry—the plague dead wouldn’t have lasted as long as someone caught live—and anyway, he tended to retreat into himself when he thought she was upset. But this was the wrong kind of silence for that.

Vincent had stopped as well, and was looking at something on the stable roof. There was a series of soft clicks; the armor on his arm rippled, as if the flesh underneath had suddenly swelled and just as suddenly shrank. Then he inclined his head.

Sephiroth dropped soundlessly to the ground, only a few feet away from Cloud. Someone had given him clothes. Black silk shirt, trousers, black boots. The coat Tifa had bought at the fair. He’d tied back his hair and the clothes covered him so only his head and hands showed, and in the growing dark they made him look thin and sharp, like that lost sword of his. When he got nearer, Tifa could still see the gauntness in his face, but his eyes were glowing nearly as strongly as Cloud’s.

“I’d like to come,” he said, looking at Vincent.

Tifa cleared her throat, then jerked herself back a step. She didn’t reach out for Cloud but she paused in front of him. Then she slipped by, around the other two men, and before she was through the gate Cloud had his hand around her wrist.

He was already cupping his other hand for her foot, and she stepped into it and he boosted her up the wall across the street. On the other side was a graveyard, full of squat mausoleums of granite and marble. Most of them were very ornate, heavily carved and sometimes gilded, but the one nearest them was worn down and falling apart, with walls leaning away from each other and a broken door.

Vincent clicked his finger armor against the wall in warning, and then he and Sephiroth joined them; the leather strap around Sephiroth’s wrists didn’t seem to hamper him at all. Though it looked as if Vincent—maybe Chaos—had said something, because Sephiroth stayed well clear of the other man. And clear of Cloud, too, to Tifa’s relief.

They went into the broken mausoleum. The coffer inside had a false bottom that dropped into the tunnels, which were so narrow at first that Tifa heard a displeased grunt or two from Sephiroth, but which quickly widened into dry, tightly-built passages that easily accommodated the man’s height. Some of them even had plastering.

Vincent stopped. They’d just reached a crossroads, so Tifa waited for him to show them the direction and nearly missed the shudder that went through the other man. It took the rattle of his armored arm to send her scrambling back for shelter.

She realized too late that she and Cloud had split to different sides of the hall, with Sephiroth on _Cloud’s_ side—Vincent bent over, a long, gargling cry coming from him, then threw back his head. His body split along the spine, dark fur sprouting up into the gap, and his hair, his clothes, his skin _melted_ and the Galian Beast stood on all fours, grinning at them.

Its massive head swung around and nosed out Cloud, who took a slow, dazed step forward. Jaw dropped, eyes glinting with malicious humor, the Galian Beast twisted like a snake, sliding past Cloud and then around. By the time its hindquarters made the turn, Cloud was on its back, hands fisted in the beast’s mane. The Galian Beast flexed its back legs and then sprang forward, so Tifa’s fists only hit the rock where it had stood.

She spun around, trying to follow it, and saw Sephiroth instead. Staring at her, as if—she knew she couldn’t keep up. “Go after him!” she hissed. “Before that thing drags him back to his father!”

Sephiroth passed her, the air slapping her face in his wake. She jerked after him, then made herself stop. She couldn’t catch them. Sephiroth might be able to, but he still had bindings on—he wouldn’t be able to call the Galian Beast to heel once he caught up. Or—Tifa cast around and stepped on something small and round. A black opal. When she picked it up, the soul inside rose to the surface, a hazy green face with an open mouth.

Tifa dropped it and smashed the opal under her heel. She heard a thin, faint cry, and then felt something chilly whip over her right shoulder. She followed it to the nearest entry to the streets above, where it swirled around and around in confusion. Not a local, then, she thought, looking around. She didn’t recognize the street either.

Someone called at her from a shrouded doorway, a lewd proposition. She glimpsed a crackling hearth, slopping tankards, and then a man slung himself out of the tavern, his hand resting lightly on a dagger at his hip.

He would do.

* * *

The demon carrying Cloud was impossibly fast in such tight quarters. It dashed down one passage after another, taking turns so sharply that its hindquarters often smashed into the walls, leaving dribbles of falling rubble in its wake, but Sephiroth could barely keep pace, let alone gain on it.

He had no idea where they were. His world narrowed to the bob of Cloud’s head on the demon’s back, the smack of stone against his boots, the spreading burn of air in his lungs. And then they were in open air.

Grass. Soft soil, collapsing under his left foot—some burrowing animal’s home. He caught himself on his hands, then twisted furiously to the side. If he’d lost them—

A dark shape reared up over him. He saw the curve of iron glint in the starlight, the delicately-articulated bones of the feet, and then the dead rider toppled over, away from him. Its skull rolled wildly on the top of the spinal column, then crushed to splinters in the teeth of the beast that Valentine had become. The horseshoe that had threatened just a moment before crumpled like a flower under the demon’s paw.

Sephiroth breathed out raggedly, dropping his hands to his boot. He remained in a crouch as he turned, fingering his knife, and saw the remains of the two other dead riders already scattered across the grass. Behind them, a good hundred yards away, reared one of the city gates. Its watchtowers were dark, the path leading up to it overgrown.

A vicious snap made him look back. The demon was slowing, picking its way through the gory ribs of the horse, its tongue coming out now and then to remove the blood from its muzzle. Its eye rolled towards him and Sephiroth closed his fingers over the knife.

The demon snorted and buried its head in the chest of the horse. Sephiroth let go of the knife and put his hands on his knee to rise, then frowned down at his feet. The pale flicker he’d seen came again, a strange wispy tendril that stroked along his right ankle. When he moved his foot, it followed, thickening and dividing to wrap around both sides of his leg.

He jerked away and was buffeted hard in the back, sending him off his feet and head first into a patch of—it looked like fog, but it was warm, choking as it enveloped him. It poured into his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, slipping like honey and fire down his throat. He heard a clamor of voices, had the desperate _angerfearregretwantWANT_ of a thousand different minds press down on him. Not like the other time, not like her, not one voice so strong so deep but there were so _many_ and he was he wasn’t he was he was who was—

The voices abruptly vanished. His head rattled and burned in their wake, ached with the passing even as he gasped in relief. Earth filled his mouth now, dirt and crushed grass. He twisted, coughing, and the weight on his back rolled, forced his hips down. He felt a mouth on his throat, then his jaw. Heavy boot-soles dragged down his thighs as he fought, throwing up his shoulders and pulling his head down, out of reach. He pushed sideways to get his hands out from under himself and something pale and gold slipped across the edge of his vision.

Sephiroth looked up and saw Cloud’s eyes, brilliant, blinding, blazing right through him. Cloud had his mouth, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t close his eyes, he was burning. It was dark inside of him, something there screaming, hating it, hating _Cloud_ for opening him up like this and uncovering the deep rot and scouring it out, taking away what was _hers_.

Then it was dark outside. He couldn’t see anything for a moment, but just sagged onto his arms where Cloud had dropped him and sucked air between his teeth. Next to him he heard gagging, then silence.

“Girl,” said an unfamiliar voice.

The demon. Sitting amidst its bones like a hound out of nightmares. It yawned wide, cracking the joint in its jaw, and then snarled at something behind and to Sephiroth’s left.

“Girl,” it said again. Its mouth wasn’t made for human speech and worked awkwardly. “He needs to be stronger.”

“ _You’re_ not the one who decides that,” Tifa snarled. She was standing with a large, weakly struggling lump at her feet. A man, whose eyes flashed with terror as she bent, yanked up his head and slit his throat.

There was a groan beside Sephiroth, and then Cloud uncurled himself, one hand wrenching at his hair. He swayed, his head down, first towards Sephiroth and then towards the dying man.

The demon lifted a bone, long and thin with a clubbed end. A femur. It put it into its mouth and broke it against its teeth, and a long pale stream twisted out of the fractured halves, accompanied by an eerie piping that set Sephiroth’s teeth on edge. All of the souls the dead rider had collected, flooding towards Cloud.

Tifa snarled again and jerked the man’s head around so the blood spurted from his neck, splattering across the trickling souls. The piping ceased and Sephiroth lunged forward, grabbing Cloud by the arm. He threw him at Tifa’s feet; his strength wasn’t quite back and Cloud instead skidded into the fresh corpse, but it worked well enough. Cloud twisted as if struck by lightning, then was on his feet and staring at the demon, fully aware. And angry.

“Paid,” the demon said, distinctly sour. It stood, pawed at one horn, and then sprang high over them. In an instant it was gone.

“That.” Tifa spread shaking, bloody hands against her hips. “Damn it. That selfish—misbegotten scraping of _shit_.”

“He killed them,” Cloud said. He knelt jerkily and put his hand out towards some of the dead rider bones. Then he pulled in his arm. “He did that before. We were…he was showing me how to hunt.”

Sephiroth rose slowly. He noted how Tifa’s shocked eyes never moved from Cloud, even when Sephiroth’s boot snapped one of the smaller bones. “I feel better than I should.”

“You ate,” Cloud muttered. He winced and pressed his hand against the side of his face. “You were supposed to eat the summons. I broke that a long time ago, there wasn’t anything but magic left in it. Those were—”

“Damned souls, yes, I realize.” The pain was completely gone, and when Sephiroth flexed his hands, he could feel power coiling around them. Not enough for anything but the simplest spells, but something. He found it did little against the revulsion. “I preferred not to dine on the dead before, but this confirms it.”

“You said that before.” Cloud was still pushing at his head, as if it ached badly. “No, you said…they read it out in the middle of town…you said…”

Before he could topple over, Tifa stooped and caught him by the shoulders. She wrestled with him for a moment, then got his arm over her shoulders and straightened up. Her eyes crossed Sephiroth and she paused, then nodded sharply to the corpse at her feet.

“Should I bury it?” Sephiroth said.

“No. Just turn it over on its back for me.” She moved herself and Cloud out of the way, then traced five symbols in the bloody grass. As soon as she lifted her foot, they caught white fire.

The grass burned as well, but only out to a circle that extended about three feet beyond the farthest-flung bones. It was sizable and even if this was a little-traveled side of the city, was bound to catch attention.

“Nanaki will come and handle it,” Tifa said, sensing Sephiroth’s thoughts. She began to drag Cloud towards the city, then looked wearily at him. “What? We can’t stay.”

“He…I felt…” Sephiroth pressed his lips together. “Is it safe? I remember how they took us into the city earlier. I can follow later.”

“I want you where I can see you,” Tifa told him. Her voice was rough with banked anger. Then she turned her head away. Her one hand tucked Cloud’s limp arm into his coat. “I’m his priestess. It’s my job to call him down, and they’re not going to get me away for the rest of the night, at least.”

“Then let me carry him,” Sephiroth said. He watched her eyes widen, then narrow. She was tired; he could see the tremble in her legs.

After another moment, she reluctantly turned Cloud over to him. “Only because we’ll go faster this way,” she said. Her hands lingered on Cloud till he nodded. “Come on, then.”

* * *

Cloud woke grudgingly. His head felt as if someone had scraped out the insides with a dull knife, but the rest of him was singing with too much magic. He had to cast a few harmless light spells before he thought he could roll over without accidentally destroying anything.

“I take back what I said about you feeding off them.” Tifa’s head loomed into view, distorted to the left. Her misshapen flipper of a hand reached towards Cloud’s eyes, then pushed his head so its weight wasn’t forcing up the flesh of his cheek. “I think you should stay away from them. And I’m this close to dragging us out of here, too.”

“You smell burnt,” Cloud muttered. He dragged his arm around and propped his head up on it. His bedroom. Pale grey outside of the window, almost dawn.

Tifa settled on the bed by his head, crossing her legs under her. She had crusts of blood under her nails, and deep shadows under her eyes. The whites of her eyes were dull. “After we got you back, I spent the rest of the night yelling at Vincent. And I punched Rufus, and then Reno went after me.”

“You yelled at Vincent?” Cloud said.

“I don’t care if he can’t beat them. He still knows what they’re going to do before they do it and he could tell us. Or he could try something else. I don’t know.” The words came out in a low rush, tripping over each other, and then Tifa hit the bed and exhaled angrily. She wasn’t wearing her gauntlets. When she looked away, she revealed a wavy line running behind her ear and along her hairline, where the water hadn’t reached. She’d changed clothes but hadn’t bathed except to splash her face. “He didn’t ask for it, but it’s been long enough. He can ask for an exorcism or he can learn to use them. Sometimes I just think he still wants to lie in that box where we found him. We _asked_ him if he wanted to die and he said no.”

Then Tifa closed her eyes and just breathed. Her shoulders dragged and she kept rubbing her wrists where the first straps would have crossed. She started, then looked down when Cloud moved, and then she shifted over so Cloud could sit up.

Her gauntlets were drying on a table, the metal parts turning the weak light into a shine that stung the eyes. She must have been scrubbing them for hours.

“Did you forget?” Tifa asked, very quietly, as if her heart trembled on each word.

“I remember the Galian Beast came out, and called me to hunt, and—we didn’t pay the dead riders. It killed them and I drank from them, and then Sephiroth was there and he was drinking from them, and…I thought he was part of the hunt. I thought I’d got him.” The sense-memory of it came too thick on him, the twisting body underneath, bone-dust in his nose, sour hate mixed haphazardly with honey-sweet desire. He turned his head and the world seemed off-kilter, ready to tip into turmoil.

A soft, slow murmur gradually reached him, something steady to orient against. Cloud blinked and the world righted itself.

Tifa continued the chant for a few more seconds, then let it trail off. She stared at her hands. “Chaos finally came out, while I was yelling at Vincent. He said the dead riders had to die anyway, if Jenova wasn’t to know. That doesn’t make sense. Dead riders come to escort the souls of sorcerers. They—”

“You talked to Chaos?” Cloud said.

“I didn’t mean to, he just came, and since he was there I—”

“You should’ve left and let Tseng or—”

“They want to turn you into one of them,” Tifa snapped. She breathed in hard. “We’ve tried so _long_ , damn it. I keep calling you back, Cloud, and I know you—but sometimes you’re just like Vincent. I think you just don’t care anymore. I saw you, you let the Galian Beast call you and you didn’t even try. And I keep telling you—everything I remember—”

“I don’t remember the things you tell me. Your boots, your lessons, your family. I don’t _remember_. I don’t know why you tell me them, because they don’t remind me of anything.” Angry. He’d been furious, too, a towering rage that had made him want to tear into the heart of something, take it in his fingers and squeeze it out of its rhythm. For a moment that returned and it was all he could do to sit and not pull down the walls around them.

Then he remembered the other anger, the sudden spit and snarl he’d found inside Sephiroth, and the way it’d echoed even after Tifa had pulled him back to himself. It’d wanted him the same.

“It’s all I’ve got,” Tifa said. She hadn’t noticed his start, her eyes fixed on the far wall. Her hands were piled limply in her lap. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not good enough. I know it’s not going to tell you what you _were_ , and I don’t—I don’t even want that. That’s stupid and has nothing to do with now. But…you aren’t one of them, and I want you to know that and I don’t know how to tell you. All I have are my stupid stories about a girl who doesn’t even exist now.”

The sunlight was crawling over the windowsills now, pale yellow, and outside the city was beginning to wake. A bird fluttered past the window and its swooping shadow painted out the middle of Tifa’s face, so for a moment she was only a tired half-shut eye. She had told him, however long he was here, in this world, and then however long he _wanted_ to be in this world. If he was carried back, she would find a way to make him hear.

To hear. “I didn’t understand what he meant,” Cloud said. “I thought I’d heard wrong, and I asked you, and you said you’d try to sneak me a copy of the proclamation.”

Tifa’s hands wrapped tightly around each other. She still didn’t look at him, but her eyes widened. “You did remember.”

“I remembered some of a hunt with my father, too,” Cloud added after a moment. He caught himself digging his nails into his wrist. “I think there are reasons why I don’t remember more of that.”

“Chaos said you needed to face up to it sooner or later, and that he and the Galian Beast only wanted to make it sooner, before you had to do it in a fight,” Tifa said. Her voice vibrated with anger at the elder demons, but she was sitting straighter and looser. “He said he was doing it in thanks for talking Vincent into waking, and letting them have a little freedom. That smug bastard.”

Cloud sighed and reached for her elbow. Then he changed his mind and wrapped his hand around her wrist instead. “Just because he likes me doesn’t mean he won’t hurt you.”

“I know,” Tifa said irritably, though she curled her fingers around his. “He left after that, anyway. And then Rufus came in and was trying to tell me there wasn’t a point to yelling anymore.”

“And that’s why you punched him?” Cloud snorted. “I hope he wasn’t supposed to go with you to the Temple.”

Tifa glanced at him, then pulled her hand away. She slid over to the edge of the bed and put her feet down to pull on her boots. “I don’t like this at all,” she muttered. “Sephiroth did seem to catch on a little, but…he can’t help what he is now, and what that looks like, is a big excuse for all the elders to mess with us.”

“I think it’s been too late to stop for a while now,” Cloud said. 

“I know,” Tifa said after a long silence. She twisted the laces of her boots around her fingers, then shook them free and rapidly knotted them up. “Just…be careful while I’m gone.”

“I remembered you.” Cloud grabbed her hand again as she rose, held it for a second and then let go. “You know that. I always remembered you.”

Tifa looked quietly at him, and then she smiled as if someone had carved it onto her face with a knife. She put her hand to his cheek, then stepped back to let him get to his feet.

* * *

Sephiroth had been blessedly silent while helping Tifa bring Cloud back, and so had Elena, who’d met them at the city gate. Elena hadn’t been able to help a few too-curious looks, but Sephiroth had acted as if they did this every night, hauling an unconscious man through underground tunnels after having rolled around in the remains of supernatural creatures. He’d even left promptly after laying Cloud on the bed. It didn’t convince Tifa that he was any better to have around Cloud, but she appreciated it.

She had to admit that she appreciated the absolutely stunned faces he and Rhapsodos and Hewley made when Cloud and Vincent carried in the men’s swords. Rhapsodos had nearly dropped his in his haste to look over the hilt, muttering that it even had the right engraving.

“They’re not copies,” Cloud said, also amused.

“But…how?” Hewley asked, finally dragging his eyes up. He wasn’t well enough to lift his sword off the floor, but he held onto it as if he thought they’d take it away the moment he let go.

Cloud’s amusement died. “My father rules over the lost. That includes objects. So when you said they’d been destroyed, I thought…”

“We had a mutual acquaintance inquire into the matter,” Vincent interrupted. 

For that matter, Tifa was glad that Vincent had gotten Yuffie in and out without her or Cloud ever having to see her. Yuffie could be—well, a distraction, sometimes a more effective one than Elena, depending on how bad things were—but her meddling was the last thing they needed right now. For someone who’d been raised by the best warrior-priests Wutai had, she didn’t take the elder demons nearly as seriously as she should have.

Not that that made Tifa any less angry with Vincent.

“So your father’s involved now?” Rhapsodos said. He was too busy cooing over his blade to care about Cloud’s expression.

Sephiroth was staring right at Cloud, had been since Cloud had started talking about his father, and Tifa wasn’t sure which she liked least.

“No,” Cloud said, sharply enough for even Rhapsodos to look up. Then he shifted uncomfortably, opening and closing his hands against his hip. “No, he isn’t. He doesn’t need to. The demon they used on you, the one we’re looking for—”

“We’ve reason to believe she’s in Midgar. The priest who was in charge of our…adaptation is the high priest of the Shinra,” Rhapsodos said. He sat down on the bed next to Hewley, swinging his sword carelessly over the footboard and coming within a hair of taking off the top of the nearest bedpost. “He’s named Hojo. Possibly he’s also taken to impersonating the king while he’s been at it.”

Hewley twisted his sword very slightly, so it was angled between Rhapsodos and Sephiroth, and stared hard at the floor. “It’s a theory. We’re only just back into the world, we know—”

“And then there’s still the question of how we ended up with Hollander,” Rhapsodos went on, blithely running over Hewley. “He was second to Hojo, of course, but last I knew, the man was scheming to get his own temple and create a schism. Of course, since his tower’s been destroyed, we can’t look for answers there, so—”

“We appreciate the efforts you’ve made to return our weapons to us,” Sephiroth cut in. He was looking at Rhapsodos now, and Tifa didn’t need to know any of their silent communication tricks to know he disagreed with the turn of conversation. “When we’re able to wield them again, we hope to do so to our mutual benefit.”

“I’m going to take care of that now,” Cloud said. He looked slowly between Sephiroth and Rhapsodos. “At least, I’ll try. I was thinking about it over breakfast and—”

“Ah, you partake in the mornings too?” Rhapsodos said, much too brightly. “By the way, the fire summons was delicious. Once we worked out the trick of it, of course—sss!”

Hewley didn’t even try to hide the elbow he’d just jammed into Rhapsodos’ side. Rhapsodos opened his mouth, then flinched back as Masamune twitched in Sephiroth’s hands. Sephiroth deliberately lowered the blade, then swept it back and had it leaned against the wall in an eye-blink.

“If it’ll shut you up, you can go first,” Sephiroth said.

He looked over at the scrape of wood, then moved back to let Tifa push the two chairs up to the bed. Rhapsodos wasn’t too intimidated to immediately take one and then pat the seat of the other while looking at Cloud, but he paused when Tifa took his place on the bed. Hewley glanced over too, but Sephiroth’s nod to her made them both back down.

Cloud ignored the byplay and just sat down, already frowning at the strap around Rhapsodos’ wrists. He’d always gotten so worked up about magic as a boy, even simple spells that everyone could do, and he would have been beside himself at the things he did now—Tifa stopped that line of thought, grimacing, and just hoped it would go quickly.

She knew it was stupid to be mother-henning Cloud like this, and especially when she was leaving at nightfall. But anything she could do to give him at least a little breather…anyway, he’d asked her to come along. And if he asked, she came.

“So, I don’t suppose the land of the lost has literature?” Rhapsodos asked.

Hewley laughed before either Tifa or Cloud could reply. “You are _not_ going to bother him about that. You’d be insufferable if they had it.”

“On the contrary, some of the charm lies in its very incompleteness, its enduring enigma,” Rhapsodos retorted airily. His eyes were much less flippant, concentrating as hard on Cloud’s face as Cloud was on his hands. “One can construct any ending one pleases. However, if the fifth act _is_ available, I would never forgive myself for not asking.”

“I need a word with you,” someone murmured almost out of earshot. Vincent, still in the room, and speaking to a stony-faced Sephiroth.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Sephiroth said back, just as quietly. He was looking at Cloud’s hands.

Vincent tilted his head in an inhumanly languid movement, and an eerie echo entered his voice. “Then don’t speak.”

Sephiroth looked at him, then at the balcony. He waited for Vincent to go ahead of him, then followed, leaving the balcony doors open.

“ _Loveless_ ,” Hewley was saying. He was looking straight at Tifa when she turned to him, clearly waiting for her move. “I rue the day that someone read that damn poem to him. Some nights I’d have nightmares of Genesis reciting it, and then I’d realize I hadn’t actually fallen asleep yet.”

Cloud was too deep into unraveling the spellwork to have noticed Sephiroth’s departure, but Rhapsodos had straightened up and spread his feet a little, ready to lunge for the sword he’d laid against the bedpost. He didn’t look at Tifa, but at Hewley; for an irrational moment Tifa wanted to kick the purring son of a bitch. Then she shrugged and pushed herself back on the bed. “I saw the play a couple times,” she said. “I liked it, up till the third act.”

Rhapsodos perked up. “The third act is the absolute _crux_ of the—”

“The first time, the stage collapsed. Traveling production and they didn’t set it up right. Second time, it was in a real playhouse, but the stage manager ran out and turned into a swarm of flies,” Tifa continued. “Pestilence demon, bad week. It’s not a really lucky one for us.”

If Chaos or one of the other elders wanted to talk, he’d come out regardless of who was in the room. And if _Vincent_ wanted to speak to Sephiroth, well, maybe it was a sign that he realized just protesting wasn’t working. At any rate, Tifa wouldn’t be caught off-guard now.

“One of the signs of a declining civilization is a lack of appreciation for the fine arts,” Rhapsodos sighed. “I don’t suppose you can revive my faith in humanity, Strife?”

Cloud didn’t respond and Rhapsodos leaned forward, as if—he blew into Cloud’s face. _Blew_. Startled, Cloud jerked his head up and his hands back, and dragged a yelping Rhapsodos off the chair and onto his knees in front of Cloud. Rhapsodos’ left knee almost sliced itself open on Hewley’s sword. Only Hewley’s fast reflexes saved the man, both from that and from blocking Tifa from slapping the idiot.

“Shit,” Hewley grunted. He had overextended himself to shift the sword and was close to falling off the bed, his arms shaking as he tried to keep hold of the blade.

Tifa grabbed the sword’s hand-guard and yanked it towards her, scrambling to get her legs out of the way. Even with her strength added, they couldn’t lift the sword off the ground, but they managed to tilt it against the bed instead of into Rhapsodos.

“Stop _moving_ ,” Cloud muttered. He still was fiddling with the binding spells, his jump just a momentary distraction; he was still on his chair, but his legs were slewed to the side and his torso twisted the other way and bent nearly horizontal to accommodate Rhapsodos’ new position. Sometimes he could get like that, and nothing short of an emerging elder could knock him out of it. “I almost got it.”

Rhapsodos looked at him as if he’d never seen actual dedication before. Then he began to shift up.

“ _Stop_ ,” Cloud hissed.

“I was only…” Then Rhapsodos sighed. He looked around, carefully crooked his arm to lift the elbow without moving the wrist, and propped it up on the edge of Cloud’s chair.

“I’d like to apologize,” Hewley said, right in Tifa’s ear. He looked embarrassed when she jerked away, almost lifting one hand towards her before his sword grated against the floor.

They just laid it flat on the floor, alongside the bed. She couldn’t hold it by herself, and he was starting to go grey-faced, and she really didn’t want Cloud to have to tend to him more than was absolutely necessary.

“For the other night,” Hewley went on. “I…shouldn’t have spoken without trying to understand your situation. And I realize it’s more than a little hypocritical of me to comment on your…lifestyle, considering my past and present.”

Tifa suppressed a sigh. She’d gotten over that a while ago. In all honesty, she probably shouldn’t even have made a fuss about it; he wasn’t the first one to have had that reaction and he wouldn’t be the last. If she’d been thinking, she should’ve just kept them going till they were asleep, or too busy bickering to notice her and Cloud slipping off for a few hours. “If this is just some argument you three had, spare me.”

Hewley blinked, while on the floor, Rhapsodos made a soft noise very like a muffled ‘how-well-she-knows.’ Then Hewley shook his head, solemn and intent. “No. I am genuinely sorry.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how much she believed him. He didn’t look like the lying type, but then, he’d been so _urgent_ that they not kill anybody. And it didn’t matter, anyway, because she didn’t need his approval.

“Sephiroth said you’re going to get someone to help me from the Temple of the Ancients,” Hewley said. “I appreciate it, I do, but…I’m not worth someone else’s life at this point. And I’m sure that you have better—”

Rhapsodos had something to say, something sharp and urgent and completely at odds with his usual flippancy, but Tifa didn’t care. She shoved herself off the bed. “We’re not doing it for you,” she snapped. “We’re doing it so we can get Jenova.”

“Tifa,” Cloud said. 

He stood up and only then did the rest of them realize that Rhapsodos had one hand on the floor and the other reaching for Hewley. A band of leather and gems still circled each of Rhapsodos’ wrists, but they were no longer tied together.

“We’re going to bring the priestess back alive,” Cloud said to Hewley. “It doesn’t work if she’s not willing.”

“But is it even necessary?” Hewley said, recovering quicker than Rhapsodos. He maneuvered himself out of Rhapsodos’ reach, not looking away from Cloud. “Look, I want to live, I’m too selfish to give up on that, but I don’t see how it helps to make me a better _monster_.”

“ _Angeal_ ,” Rhapsodos hissed. He looked like the other man had punched him in the chest, and like he wanted nothing more than to return the favor.

“What’s going on?” Sephiroth stepped back into the room. He already looked angry about whatever Vincent had had to say to him, and he looked only more sour when he saw them. “What happened?”

Vincent passed him without slowing; Sephiroth spun as if to speak to him, then deliberately pulled himself back. It didn’t make a difference in Vincent’s stride or expression. He just came straight on, only pausing briefly when he pulled up to Tifa.

“Elena’s waiting for you in the stables,” he said.

“I’ll only be a little longer,” Cloud said. He sat back down on his chair, then pushed the other one out with his foot. After a look at Sephiroth, he reached out and twisted the chair towards the other man. “Then we’ll come down.”

Vincent stood in the doorway. His eyes followed Tifa as she slowly returned to the bed, leaving a large space between her and Hewley. Then he twisted on his heel and left. It didn’t feel much like a victory.

* * *

All Valentine had had to say were some half-formed recollections of Sephiroth’s human mother and a cryptic but vaguely threatening comment regarding Cloud. The former held no interest for Sephiroth: he had had a period where he’d very much longed for a mother, but Jenova had likely cured him of such things. She _had_ cared him, in her way, but she had also submerged his sense of self and his independent will. Small children wanted their parents to be gods, to control the world so that they could remain passively aloof; Sephiroth likewise had had an infantile weakness that Hojo had encouraged and that Jenova had exploited. But that weakness was no longer present.

At least, he was determined that it would be so. Being pulled out of Hollander’s tower, spending several days under binding spells, he had had the time to realize that no matter what his parentage was, he was not yet in control of his own destiny. And ultimately, his strongest desire was to not be beholden to anyone, mother or father or other.

And there the comment regarding Cloud stung, especially in light of last night’s events. Objectively, of course, Cloud Strife was little better than the rest of them. He’d stated frankly that he was helping Sephiroth as part of his own agenda against Jenova. But…the behavior didn’t sum up: Cloud did not need to unbind them, or to offer to help heal Angeal, in order to achieve his goals. And he had rejected the idea of a life-debt. Moreover, he’d been absolutely furious at Valentine last night.

Sephiroth _wanted_ to believe it didn’t add up. He liked Cloud. He found the man strange, and strangely familiar, and as infuriating as he found the strictures of Cloud’s world, he wanted to learn more about it. He wanted Cloud to explain it to him. Even the incident last night, he found it hard to hold against the other man and that alone was difficult to reconcile with any rational assessment of the situation.

“You’re brooding,” Angeal said.

“You should be in bed.” But Sephiroth withdrew from the balcony nonetheless. The inner courtyard was offering him nothing except the sight of Genesis attempting some sword practice, and the man’s form was making him wince. They might have been trapped in stone pits for two years, but that didn’t excuse the over-extensions. “Do you want me to call back Cloud?”

Angeal shrugged and continued to look at him from the floor by the balcony door. “Well, would you?” he said, patting the spot next to him. “We owe him yet another apology, after all.”

“ _Genesis_ owes him an apology,” Sephiroth muttered. He debated the merits of dragging Angeal back to the bed, then sighed and sat down. It was a warm night and Angeal had a blanket wrapped around himself in any case, and Sephiroth didn’t want to risk injuring the other man should he prove stubborn.

“He did have a point, you know. You went after Cloud like all the armies of the underworld were after you last night, and today you won’t talk to him, even to thank him for giving you back your hands.” Angeal gave Sephiroth a moment to gather his irritation, then prodded further. “If you’re not going to talk about it, you can’t tell us not to wonder.”

“Angeal, if you truly hate this life, there are better ways to exit than provoking your friends,” Sephiroth said.

After a long silence, Angeal leaned his head against the wall. He grimaced at the faint thud he made, then lifted his arm in a jerky, two-step motion. A faint wonder passed over his face as he looked at his hand, and then he grimaced and put his hand behind his head. “I do want to live.”

“But.” Sephiroth studied his own hands, and the jeweled leather still wrapped about each wrist. He suspected but hadn’t tested the theory that the bands’ lingering presence meant they retained some restrictions, probably on their magic. Certainly Genesis hadn’t used any significant spells yet, and he’d never been known for his restraint before.

“Damn it, I said I wouldn’t leave either of you,” Angeal snapped. He pushed himself off the wall abruptly enough for Sephiroth to reach for him, reacting to the unnatural sway of the man. But Angeal elbowed Sephiroth away strongly enough, and then seized Sephiroth’s arm in a grip that made Sephiroth tighten his lips. “Don’t _do_ that. Don’t act like you’re just angry. I’m sorry I left before, all right, but I was _afraid_.”

“And you’re less fearful now?” Sephiroth said.

“No.” Angeal’s hold on Sephiroth loosened, so the weight of his arm pulled his hand down to Sephiroth’s wrist. “No, if anything I’m even more afraid. Before I just thought that I was dying of some…some illness. A growth in my gut, blood poisoning. Something slow and terrible and worthless.”

“And now you’re afraid we’re monsters.” Sephiroth smiled at the other man’s flinch. “If you are so, then we’re the same, Hewley. Be truthful.”

Eventually Angeal conceded a reluctant nod, though he still looked as if he would have preferred to drain out his veins. “You’re taking it well.”

“I was a little naïve before,” Sephiroth said. He raised a brow at Angeal’s sudden cough. “And yes, vulnerable. I’m sure Genesis will be pleased to be proven right.”

“I’m sure you still don’t fully understand the concept of friendship,” Angeal muttered. “Although to be fair, neither does he.”

He shifted again, a flicker of pain crossing his face, then released Sephiroth to push his arm up and down his side. The mottling didn’t seem visibly worse than before, but perhaps the bindings had been counteracting that as well. Or the poison fluctuated in correspondence with their abilities. They needed to look into it, no matter Lockhart’s promise to be back in a few days. Sephiroth didn’t doubt the woman’s dedication, despite her antagonism towards Angeal; on the contrary, if Tifa had remained, he would have felt more secure. She’d acted swiftly and decisively to stop Valentine from manipulating Sephiroth and Cloud last night, and she seemed well aware of Valentine’s duplicity. Without her, they’d have to rely on themselves to thwart any further attempts, and Angeal was, unfortunately, incapacitated.

Genesis’ earlier point about their tardiness to question their situation had been correct as well. The man was going to be insufferable.

“Is this really so close to your life before?” Angeal asked quietly. “Divided from the rest of the world, _knowing_ you’ll never be able to join them?”

“I never wanted to be ordinary, Angeal,” Sephiroth finally said. “And I see no good reason why an otherwise ordinary human such as Hojo has been allowed power and freedom, while we’ve lost two years of our lives. If not more. I don’t understand your feelings, but don’t you at least want revenge?”

Angeal looked at him. For all that the man claimed not to understand Sephiroth’s ways, his gaze alone could make Sephiroth feel as exposed as when he’d been a child, shivering in the middle of one or another inner sanctum, while the priests watched and waited from above.

“Is that what you want?” he said.

“Yes,” Sephiroth replied.

He persisted. “Is that all you want?”

“I want,” Sephiroth said, and then stopped. He listened to the sound of Genesis scaling the wall, then began to get to his feet. “I want you to heal, and I want us to kill Hojo and then help Cloud deal with Jenova, if he’ll allow it. And then we can conclude these debates about morality and honor, when we’re certain that no one else is speaking for us.”

“They’re good goals,” Angeal said. He had heard Genesis as well, and appeared to be calculating whether he could make it back to the bed in time. The conclusion was a definitive no as he sighed and sprawled back against the wall. “All right. I’ll try to…I’ll try to see if this life has any honor left in it. Now, go see if Cloud’s done with his goodbyes to Tifa.”

Sephiroth stopped.

“We need to talk about Jenova, Hojo, Hollander, and all the rest. He seems more chatty with you, and even if you refuse to talk about it, you clearly want a reason to keep him away from Valentine,” Angeal said, as smooth as silk. “Unless you want Genesis to go?”

“Hmm, yes?” Genesis hopped up onto the balcony rail, blinking innocently. “Did I hear my name?”

“I regret ever meeting you two,” Sephiroth said, and slammed the balcony doors shut.

* * *

Nanaki was waiting with the coach just outside the city. He greeted Elena politely and then sat down in front of Lazard.

“Vincent had him,” Tifa said.

Elena took her hand off the coach and looked back, her stance shifting to defensive. She frowned when Lazard inclined his head and shoulders towards Nanaki; it wasn’t much of a bow, but it was more than even a Shinra bastard was expected to give. “Hello,” Lazard said. “I think I’ve seen you, or one of your kind before.”

“Yes. In the temple.” After another moment, Nanaki drew back his lips in a fierce smile. “Neither of us ended as sacrifices, I see.”

To his credit, Lazard didn’t flinch, but he did stand well clear of the coach until Nanaki had joined Tifa on the roof. Then he and Elena went inside, the door rattling shut behind him because yes, Tifa was a little impatient to get underway. Even after Vincent had left, things had been tense: Sephiroth had been in an awful mood from whatever Vincent had said, shutting down any attempts at conversation with a choice, curt word, with Masamune a glowering shadow on the wall behind him. Tifa hadn’t wanted casual chitchat any more than Sephiroth had, but she hadn’t wanted to sit there wondering when he was going to snap and cut off someone’s head, either.

And then Vincent had gone and found them in the stables, and had brought Lazard with him. He’d taken forever to leave, and then Lazard had wanted to go over the plan because, apparently, no one had told him yet, and at the end of it Tifa had barely had enough time to hug Cloud before they had to go.

“I would have liked to have known,” Nanaki said beside her.

“Why?” Tifa snapped, and then winced. She reached out and rubbed an apologetic hand down Nanaki’s neck. “Vincent told us not to tell anyone unless he said otherwise.”

Nanaki made a low, slurring rumble in his throat, his eyes half-closing. He was surprisingly forgiving, considering both his appearance and his background. Some backwoods hunters had gotten lucky and trapped him as a youngling, and had brought him to the nearest Shinra temple as part of their yearly taxes. He’d been a captive of the Shinra priesthood until Cloud and Tifa had stumbled across him while cracking a summons at his temple.

“I see,” was all he said, before he put his head down on her knee.

They normally wouldn’t have taken the main roads, but it was a cloudy night and the fair was still going strong, pulling all the traffic onto the roads opposite to the way they were going. The few people who did run across them could be handled with a few simple illusion spells. It was a risk, but the time they’d save was more than worth it.

And anyway, if Vincent had been that worried, he shouldn’t have sent along Lazard. If Chaos had been that worried. If Chaos was even capable of concern about that sort of thing.

Tifa grimaced, then carefully rearranged her legs so she wouldn’t wake Nanaki. The anger wouldn’t do her any good out here. If they were going to get in and out of the Temple of the Ancients without any trouble, she needed a calm head and heart.

The wheels ran over a rock and she slapped her hand down to steady herself, which sent Nanaki starting up. Once he’d realized that there was no danger, he regarded her with a thoughtful, steady gaze. “Do you want to run ahead?” he said.

She could. She almost rose, and then she felt the ache in her back, the slight shake in her arms. Now was not the time to be careless and foolish, however much she wanted to just run and run until she dropped, and was so tired that she would have a dreamless sleep. “No,” she said. “No.”

He watched her a little longer, then leaped off the roof without a word. His tail lashed back and forth, spreading cinders over the road, before he took off at an easy, mile-eating lope down the road ahead of them. For a moment Tifa hated him.

Then she shook herself out of it, and tried to find something else to concentrate on. She chanted for a while; it was meant to help Cloud focus but the rhythm of it sometimes soothed her mood…but not tonight. She kept almost stumbling over the syllables and finally she gave up before she accidentally summoned some other demon.

Instead she pulled out the maps of the Temple Elena had passed her. She’d never been to this one before, although by now she’d gone through so many that she sometimes felt like she only needed to see the front façade and the head priest’s headdress to know what the layout was. Still, the Temple of the Ancients was unusual. For one, they didn’t keep any summons, when every other temple had racks and racks of bound demons and demigods for showing off on feast days.

For two, their priests and priestesses came out of…well, not nowhere, since they were definitely human. But they seemed to just appear, serve ten years or so, and then disappear. Other temples took in children as novices, kicked out the unruly ones, and had their priests retire to wealth and status—if they were lucky. If not, they died when a summons managed to turn on them, or were purged for heresy if they misstepped politically. The Temple of the Ancients, on the other hand, was known for its serenity.

A soft noise made Tifa look up, and she noticed to her surprise that the moon had crested and was on the downward arc. Then she turned around, scowling. “Yes?”

“Is it safe to come up?” Lazard said. He hooked his arm over the top of the roof. “Elena is resting. She’ll take the morning shift.”

Tifa glanced at the empty countryside around them, then shrugged. She didn’t particularly want the company, but she couldn’t think of a polite reason to tell him no. Being polite might wake Elena, and she didn’t want to have another damn fight with a Turk.

Lazard pulled himself up and made himself comfortable. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, though his eyes flicked over the maps Tifa was still holding. She finally just offered them to him, but he refused.

“Well, then why did you come up?” Tifa said, sighing. “I thought we went over the plan enough times.”

“We did, and I think I’m sufficiently well-informed. I just wanted to ask how angry you are at Vincent,” he said. His brow jumped at the creak of her gauntlets, but he didn’t move. “We don’t know what happened.”

Tifa snorted in disbelief. “I was yelling loud enough, and I know somebody’s always listening.”

“Not if Chaos is there.” Lazard braced himself as the coach went over another rough spot in the road, hooking one of his feet into the driver’s box. His sleeve rode up, showing a bandaged wrist, and he was favoring his left side. “We heard that something went wrong with the dead rider hunt. Nothing more.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tifa said. She folded up the maps and slid them back into her boot. “I’m not your way around Chaos. And I’m—look, I’m not going to sell you or Elena off, or anything like that. We’re going to the Temple, finding a priestess, and coming right back.”

She was ready for him to keep pushing, but Lazard just glanced at her a few times. Then he tugged his coat around so it wasn’t flapping in the wind, and watched the road. Occasionally he had to wipe the dust off his glasses and more of the bandage would show from his sleeve. It looked fresh, with the faint shadow of blood soaking through from beneath: claw marks. The bites showed themselves when the coach took a turn and he covered one hip with his hand.

“Reno said you’d been to the Temple?” Tifa finally asked. The quiet was getting to her. She didn’t know Lazard very well and she didn’t know what it meant, whether he was angry or scheming or both.

“The outer chambers and the prayer pool,” Lazard said, settling himself back. “No farther. Rufus has been in the inner sanctum, but it was deemed better that he stay behind.”

Tifa and Cloud had run into Rufus once before his father had ordered his execution. They’d gone to Junon to track down a sorcerer who was tardy in tithing to Cloud’s father, while Rufus had been there to bribe said sorcerer in helping him with some kind of weapon. She’d disliked him on sight, and then he’d shot her in the face. The stunned look on _his face_ when she’d blocked the bullet with her gauntlets had only helped a little, and only at the time. 

“Shinra must have bribed the Temple with a couple wagonloads for that to happen,” Tifa said.

Lazard shook his head. “You know the Temple wouldn’t accept that. It happened when Rufus was six and his mother was still around to make him behave.”

Try as she might, Tifa couldn’t quite picture Rufus Shinra as a child. Or maybe the problem was that he was still one, as far as she could tell. Demanding that she stop screaming, as if he had any right. “And why Vincent thought sending him…”

“Because he does remember how to get in,” Lazard said. “You had to have seen that the maps aren’t very detailed past the third level.”

“Then why didn’t he draw it out? Just being difficult again?” Tifa retorted. She uncrossed her legs from under herself and stretched them into the driver’s box. “And why are you coming, since we have the maps? The Temple’s going to be full of people who would recognize either of you.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Chaos no longer cares to keep our existence a secret.” Lazard pulled off his glasses and wiped them again, as if they were discussing the weather. “And neither of us drew maps because that wouldn’t accurately convey how to get in. There’s…the halls change on you.”

Tifa laid down on her back and looked up at the sky. The clouds were so thick they were a single smooth surface, offering nothing but a blank canvas for the fear creeping in the back of her mind. She pushed herself up and turned to Lazard. “Why are you up here?”

“I don’t want to die.” For a moment Lazard held her gaze. Then he looked down at the road again, his hand slipping over his hip again. “The name makes it plain enough, I suppose. Chaos doesn’t truly care for anything but disorder.”

“He’s an elder,” Tifa said.

Lazard nodded. “I’m not sure when it started to matter to me,” he said, voice soft and almost dreamy. “Rufus made the bargain, you know. I found out when I woke up.”

She hadn’t known, in fact. Tifa looked closely at the man, but Lazard was still as calm as could be. He looked out in front of them, idly twisting his sleeve. Then he nodded to himself, one short jerk, and reached for the edge of the coach.

“The Galian Beast came out during the hunt,” Tifa told him. “He killed the dead riders instead of paying them, and then he tried to make Cloud feed on Sephiroth.”

Lazard pulled himself back around and looked at her. Even he couldn’t keep the astonishment off his face. “What? Why?”

“Because he and Chaos have a vendetta, and they think Cloud is going to pay for it,” Tifa muttered. She was already regretting telling him. He might not have wanted it, but at the end of the day, he’d side with Vincent. “That’s not going to happen. Can you see if Elena can take over?”

Lazard looked as if he wanted to ask more questions, but he restrained himself to just a hopeful pause. She deliberately turned to face the road, and after another moment, he silently swung himself from the roof.

* * *

Once Tifa had left, Cloud locked himself in his room and tried to sleep. Someone knocked on his door twice within the hour, and he sensed Vincent in the hall a little after that, but he refused to get up from the bed.

He didn’t sleep either. He wasn’t used to having Tifa so far away; if he concentrated, he could still sense her, but the moment he stopped, he lost her. The absence made him nervous and he was already on edge for reasons that he’d been carefully trying to ignore for most of the day. If he went out—

He wasn’t going to risk that. He’d eaten enough last night, anyway, and he wasn’t going to think about that either. Cloud got up and then laid back down, and then rolled over onto his stomach and pressed his face into the mattress. Before they’d gone up to Hollander’s tower, he’d nearly reached the point where he…was not comfortable, or peaceful, but he understood that he had strange powers and that his memory was shot and understood that sometimes he was going to know things that would terrify normal people, and know them with a weary familiarity that would be even more terrifying, if he’d been normal. And he didn’t know how that worked, but he had had Tifa, and lately Nanaki, and he had had something to do with himself.

Cloud wondered if his father had known, when he’d sent Cloud Hollander’s name, and then grimaced into the bed. Chaos had been surprised to hear about Jenova, so it was unlikely. Unless his father was…his head hurt. Flashes of another land sliced through it like so many needles. An endless red plain. Giant white hounds with red ears, silent and terrible, and his bleeding bitten hand before his face. His father’s voice.

A softer voice, female and low, saying his name. He pushed himself back over, then sat up against the headboard till someone hit his door and followed it up with a long string of curses.

His eyes hurt, so he must have drifted off at some point. He rubbed at them, glanced at the window, and then looked again. Then he got up, shaking his head, and opened the door to find Reno.

“…you look like shit,” Reno said. He looked ill himself, much paler, with a long half-healed cut running along his jawline. When he saw Cloud looking at it, he grinned viciously and touched the cut. “Your girlfriend, she sure likes to beat the shit out of people.”

“Where’s Vincent?” Cloud said. He stepped back into the room and reached for his sword.

Reno slung himself around the jamb, stumbling a little, and then covered by crossing his legs. “Probably chewing up somebody. I don’t know where he’s finding the fresh meat, but hey, it’s Valentine. Maybe he went and resurrected Veld or something.”

Cloud turned back around. “He didn’t send you?”

“No. Actually, I come bearing a message from your silver-haired mountain treasure,” Reno drawled. He cocked his head. “He’s in the library. Wants to trade fairytales. You still bringing that?”

In response, Cloud picked up his sword and slung its harness over one shoulder. He followed Reno out of the room, mostly ignoring the other man’s quips and taunts. 

Cloud was expecting to be met by Rufus, so when they reached the library and he spotted Genesis’ red hair cradled in one of the reading bays, he stopped where he was. Then he turned, but Reno was already beating a retreat up the hall.

“Cloud?” Sephiroth came out of the bookcases. His eyes rested on Cloud’s sword for a moment—neither he nor Genesis had their swords—and then he closed the book in his hands.

“I thought I’d be seeing Rufus,” Cloud muttered. He shut the door, then swung his sword down to lean against it.

The library was one of the largest rooms in the house, with high vaulted ceilings and stained glass in the upper windows. It had probably started life as a private shrine, a slightly drunken Lazard had told him once, and sometimes Cloud could see the ghostly outline of an altar against the center bookshelves, glimmering candles and incense smoke and marble curls over the stacks of thick tomes. Vincent rarely came into the room for that reason: while the elder demons could stand the lingering consecration, they preferred not to have to recognize another’s power.

“I see,” Sephiroth said, his grip relaxing on the book.

He let Cloud take his time coming into the room. Genesis had stacks of books on summons on the floor by him, a couple of them serving as footrests for Angeal, who was stretched out on the bench next to Genesis. His head was in Genesis’ lap, and Cloud would have taken him for sleeping if he hadn’t turned over and looked tiredly at Cloud. They’d probably have to drain him again tomorrow.

“Speaking of the man, Rufus Shinra was good enough to inform us that Valentine was unlikely to bother us here,” Genesis said, turning a page. He licked his thumb and forefinger and peeled up the corner of the next page, then put it down, frowning. “I admit the possibility that being chained out on a wasteland can drastically change your personality, but it still seems uncharacteristically benevolent of him.”

“He’s probably trying to keep Chaos calm.” Cloud bent and picked up the nearest book, then flipped it to read the spine. “Every time Vincent shifts, he needs blood afterward. There aren’t that many of them.”

Genesis looked up, a faint glint of pleasure in his eyes. “Thank you. I appreciate the knowledge.”

“We wanted to speak with you,” Sephiroth said. He came up from behind and to the left, careful to give Cloud advance notice. “It may cover uncomfortable ground, but…we’re at a disadvantage without more information. Clearly, we have several opponents, and we would be better able to avoid them, and avoid forcing you to defend us, if we knew more about them.”

“Then you really shouldn’t be reading these,” Cloud muttered. He turned the book over again, then held it out to Genesis.

After a moment, Genesis took it, but only long enough to flick it against the nearest wall. The book ricocheted to the floor, flopping open so the spine cracked deeply, and Cloud—

—heard Sephiroth ask him something. He snapped back to the present in time to catch Sephiroth’s gaze running over him. Sephiroth immediately looked away, his jaw tightening.

“Look,” Genesis said, distracting both of them. “Even trade. We’re after a man named Hojo. Shinra’s high priest. You find him, I will bet you my sword you find Jenova. Also, if you find him, he’s _our_ kill.”

Angeal moved sharply and Genesis grimaced, then batted half-heartedly at him.

“We already let him have Hollander.” Over Angeal’s rusty laugh, Genesis continued, “Now, why is Valentine interested in interfering?”

“He’s not. Chaos is.” Cloud went over and picked up the book Genesis had thrown. He straightened a few pages that had crumpled and then set it on a nearby shelf. “He wants Jenova, not Hojo. Though I think Vincent knows the man, too.”

Genesis shrugged. “Lovely. He can be responsible for the funeral arrangements.”

“Chaos told me that Shinra’s been expanding their mining operations in North Corel and he thinks it’s connected,” Cloud said. He stared at the book for a little longer, then turned away. “He and I are going to look into it, see if we can get more information on why. The thing is, we’re not sure _why_ Jenova is active again.”

“A demon questioning another demon’s motives?” Genesis said, half-curious, half-dismissive.

Another book caught Cloud’s eye, high up on the next bookcase over. He frowned—it was familiar but from this angle he couldn’t read the title on the spine—then went into the aisle a few steps to find one of the stools scattered around the place.

When he came back, Sephiroth had taken the book down and was holding it by the corners, as if it was edged in knives. He looked at Cloud, then abruptly set the book down on the table behind him.

“Jenova was banished, a long time ago,” Cloud finally said. The book wasn’t the one he’d thought it was, but he went over to it and flipped through a few pages anyway. “She was supposed to be stripped of all her power. But she’s got some of it back—we just don’t know how.”

“Hojo,” Sephiroth said firmly. He was staring at the stained glass when Cloud looked over. “North Corel? When are you going?”

Cloud shrugged and pushed the book away. “When Vincent comes and says. Probably before Tifa gets back.”

Sephiroth turned sharply. “Is that safe?”

Another book flew through the air, crashing into the table between Sephiroth and Cloud. “What _happened_?” Genesis snapped.

“Can you stop _doing_ that?” Cloud snapped back.

Genesis looked levelly at him, then reached down and picked up another book. He didn’t even try to straighten up before his wrist crooked, and then—

He was out of the bay, on his knees, the book dropping onto the bay behind him. Angeal up and alarmed, Sephiroth speaking as well, and Genesis’ hair tickling Cloud’s nose, Genesis’ breath hissing unevenly at Cloud’s jaw. He smelled wrong, steel and apples, not peat and book dust, but the wide startled eyes, that was almost right.

She’d been reading to Cloud, when they’d come. She’d loved books, had had half of the village’s meager supply.

“Cloud,” Genesis said, fragile as eggshells. “Stop.”

And he’d read to Cloud once. In a library that made this one look like a bookstall. The ceiling so high it disappeared into darkness, the books whispering threats and come-hithers. He’d said—he’d said. What had he said.

Cloud frowned, trying to grasp the memory, but it faded relentlessly. And he was standing over Genesis, holding the man’s arm over his head by the wrist, with bright round points of fire against his palm. The moonstones studding Genesis’ collar were the color of hot coals.

He jerked his hand away, then tried to step back, but he’d let go so violently that Genesis lost his balance and fell against Cloud’s leg. The other man grabbed at Cloud’s ankle, hissed as if the touch burned and then hissed again, more lowly. His head slid against Cloud’s thigh, upwards. Then he cursed and dropped forward, catching himself on his elbows, as Cloud twisted sharply away.

Angeal was lying on his side in the bay, one hand still twisted in his collar, while Sephiroth’s hands hit the table the same moment that Genesis went on his arms. Sephiroth hunched over for a moment, then slowly straightened, rubbing his wrists together.

Cloud took a step towards the door, then flinched. He glanced over his shoulder, then opted for pulling a chair out from the table, a good distance from the other three. He sat in it and then pressed his hands to the sides of his head.

“Is he in the hall?” Sephiroth said roughly.

“Valentine?” Genesis was breathing so heavily that his voice was little more than a raspy whisper. He coughed. “You could have warned us. You inconsiderate bastard.”

Sephiroth snarled.

“Shut up, both of you.” Angeal sounded much closer than the bay. “Cloud?”

“There are reasons why I don’t remember,” Cloud muttered to himself. He moved his hands over his eyes. “Damn it. Sorry.”

“If I touch you, is it going to happen again?” Angeal asked.

That made Cloud look up. Yes, Angeal was serious. He’d dragged himself into a chair across from Cloud and had his hand hovering over Cloud’s shoulder. “No. Not right now.”

“All right.” Angeal tapped Cloud’s shoulder, then hummed thoughtfully and peered into Cloud’s face. “You look about how I feel.”

Cloud closed his eyes. He felt Angeal touch the side of his face, on his temple where the skin was tensed so much he thought he might have to cut it just to get some relief. He flinched and Angeal hummed again, then rested his fingers very lightly on Cloud’s temple. When Cloud didn’t resist, the fingers slid into Cloud’s hair and began to move in slow, circular motions.

It…helped. He leaned into it, and then he had his head on Angeal’s shoulder before he quite knew it.

“…knew he took books so seriously,” Genesis was saying in the background.

“Chaos thinks I’m not strong enough,” Cloud said, pulling away from Angeal. “He’s trying to help. He has acolytes, that’s how he—I just have Tifa.”

“I think we’d all prefer if he didn’t.” Genesis slowly got to his feet, swaying like a drunkard. He took a step and had to immediately steady himself against the table. “I have to commend Miss Lockheart. In retrospect her temper is quite mild.”

“I don’t do it to _her_ ,” Cloud snarled. He shoved his chair back and then spun around it, only to run into Angeal’s arm. He could make him—he caught himself, shook his head.

“Damn it. Wait a moment, Strife.” Genesis put out his hand, then put it back on the table and sagged against the wood. He managed a lively enough glower at Sephiroth, who had made an aborted movement towards him. “I don’t understand. I can see that this is difficult for you, and that goes some way towards soothing my—but what do you mean?”

Cloud stared at the other man without really seeing him. Just the—the collar, and the wrist cuffs. He needed to get those off them. He hadn’t noticed with Sephiroth, hadn’t wanted to think on it long enough to realize…he heard Genesis’ warning hiss, felt Angeal’s fingers clutching his clothes at the back, and pulled his hand away from Genesis.

Not now. When he was calmer—when Tifa was back, and could keep him steady. “She’s my priestess. She…she doesn’t tithe to me, she helps me get my tithe. It’s not the same. But I can’t have another, I’m not old enough yet, so that’s why Chaos thinks this way will work.”

“You didn’t take blood. Either time.” Sephiroth had steadied enough to walk, and was rounding the table, coming up on Cloud’s side.

“The tithe’s not the same,” Cloud said, stepping back. “It’s just—you remind me. When I remember.”

Sephiroth tilted his head. His gaze was unnervingly calm, as if he knew something, had seen something Cloud didn’t. “We’ve never met,” he said. “You told me you would have seen me.”

“I said I’d know you,” Cloud snapped. He sensed movement to the side and jerked away, only to realize it was Angeal. Then he twisted back just in time to avoid colliding with Sephiroth. “I didn’t—I don’t. You just remind me.”

“Of what?” Sephiroth asked.

Instead of answering, Cloud turned around. He was out the door, barely remembering to take his sword with him, and then he saw Vincent at the end of the hall. Cloud jerked, then spun on his heel and went in the opposite direction.

* * *

Angeal, predictably, was scolding. “You can’t _push_ like that, Sephiroth. You saw him, he’s as spooked as we are. Did you want him to just do it all over again?”

Sephiroth continued to the door. He knew Cloud had long since departed. Moreover, he doubted very much that mere wood and past history would keep Valentine out of the library. But there was still something satisfying about the heavy thud of the door into its frame. A petty little satisfaction, perhaps, but it helped restore his some of his composure.

“I will admit I’ve already considered it.” Genesis was sitting on the table when Sephiroth looked around. His face wasn’t visible, but his voice was telling enough. Reluctant, raw, all the artifice scraped away. “You’re not the only one who had something left behind in him, Hewley. It woke up for Cloud. If _that_ is the choice, then…”

“See Hewley’s priestess,” Sephiroth said.

Genesis turned around. “And you?” He met Sephiroth’s eyes for a moment, then gestured for Sephiroth to come over. “Does it only come for him?”

Sephiroth pressed his hand against the door. Then he pushed away from it and crossed the room.

Under his hands Genesis bent like willow. He took full advantage of it, forcing the other man back till he felt Genesis’ hips roll up over the edge of the table. A glancing blow struck his calf, fingers gripped his shoulder. He let Genesis draw blood from his lip and then smeared it down the man’s throat. Gasping, dragging at him, Genesis raked his hand down Sephiroth’s back, then pressed their hips together. The fit was wrong, they both knew it, but Sephiroth held them still till Genesis arched backwards, his curses turning to a long, low moan. Then he moved, twisting over the other man, Genesis’ feet beating faster and faster against the backs of his legs.

Rough, inelegant, quick. Familiar. Nothing between them that hadn’t been there a hundred times before, in dark hallways or darker forests. Sephiroth lifted his head, rolled his tongue around his mouth, and tasted blood and comfort and disappointment.

“I am glad he left,” Angeal said. He’d turned himself around in his chair so the back of his head was resting on the table, his eyes closed. “He doesn’t need this mess.”

Genesis winced, abruptly fought his way out from under Sephiroth and stretched across the table till his fingers were just short of Angeal’s head. “If you,” he started, uncertain. “You felt…”

“I felt it.” Angeal opened his eyes. “I felt myself, too, reaching out, and I felt him go. It’s his choice as well as yours, you know.” 

“Yes,” Sephiroth said.

Angeal turned his head, then closed his eyes again. He breathed in, out, and then his brow furrowed in pain. “Get me back to bed,” he said. “And leave him alone. If he wants to talk to you, he’ll talk to you. Otherwise, there’s enough for us to do.”

Genesis nodded, then pushed himself up so that he was hanging over Angeal. Without opening his eyes, Angeal sighed and lifted his arm. He dropped it the moment Genesis’ shoulders dipped under it.

He looked up when Sephiroth came to take his other side, then leaned his head into Sephiroth’s shoulder. His weight shifted and they needed a moment to accommodate it, and then they carried him.

* * *

By the middle of the next day, the coach had reached the town where visitors waited for a ferry to take them to the island that housed the Temple of the Ancients. Lazard coming meant they couldn’t just walk up and take the ferry, so he and Nanaki went off to hide the coach while Tifa and Elena went to find a boat.

The port was too small for real commerce, but the steady stream of pilgrims meant that what shoreline it did have was crowded with inns and piers and taverns, with plenty of people willing to sell them a leaky fishing sloop. Elena started at one end, Tifa at the other, and they agreed that they’d meet in the huge waterfront garden next to the ferry’s jetty.

Tifa had been hoping that they’d find a boat quickly, and then be able to spend the rest of the day arranging for their departure, but no such luck. A recent storm had damaged many of the boats at dock, and what boats remained whole were going for exorbitant rates. They had the money—as much as she’d hated accepting it, Cloud’s father didn’t pay them in money and Vincent did have a lot of treasure put by—but she didn’t want to spend so much that they attracted attention.

Maybe it was too early in the day. The good, sober businessmen were out and about, and confident that they’d get their asking price. Later on they might get more desperate.

She went looking for Elena, but the other woman must have been still trying, because Tifa circled the garden twice and didn’t see her. The garden was unusually empty, considering what a big attraction it was—hundreds of flowers that bloomed in all seasons, night and day, and many of them couldn’t be found anywhere else. A lot of people claimed that just stepping into the place, never mind the Temple, was enough to cure what ailed them.

The girl she’d been, growing up in a bleak mountain town, would have loved it. And it was beautiful, but it was also singing with the power of the Ancients—no one who cared to tell knew exactly what they had been, but they certainly hadn’t been demons, or aligned with them. Tifa’s skin prickled and itched even before she could see the garden’s gates, and inside it, she constantly felt as if she needed to look over her shoulder, or clear something out of her throat.

She was about to give up and go wait in one of the nearby taverns when someone ran into her shoulder.

“Oh!” they said, and grabbed at her arm. “Oh! Ow.”

Tifa twisted away from them, then winced as something heavy fell on her foot. A basket, with white and pink flowers spilling out of it. She sighed, stooped and picked it up, and then looked at the other person.

It was another woman—a girl, she thought at first, but then she saw the pearls dotting the thick brown braid that hung over one shoulder. Even noble girls didn’t wear those till they’d bled. Oddly, the rest of the woman’s dress was fairly simple, good cloth that had been dyed properly, but no silks or velvets. And her basket was plain reed weave, like any of the tens of souvenir-sellers that hawked flowers around the town.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching for the basket. Her hand was bleeding, and when she saw Tifa looking at it, she blushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking and I think I caught myself on your…your…”

She gestured at Tifa’s gauntlets, her eyes widening slightly. Strictly speaking, nobody except Shinra soldiers was allowed to bear arms in the town—and even Shinra had to give them up before visiting the island—but gauntlets weren’t weapons, Tifa had reasoned. Just protection. She’d still wrapped some cloth around the metal parts to make them less conspicuous, but their collision had pushed that off.

“It’s all right,” Tifa muttered, pulling her sleeves over her hands. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s just a cut, and anyway, it was my own fault,” the woman said, smiling. She pulled a handkerchief out, then slung her basket on one arm and began wrapping her hand. “You look new, too. I’m so sorry, you must have the worst impression of this place already. Here, can I give you a flower? Or help you? Have you found somewhere to stay already?”

Tifa was going to tell her no, no, and yes, but then she noticed the paler strips of skin on the woman’s wrists, as if she normally wore several bracelets. She hesitated and had a basket of flowers in her face before she could dodge.

“What’s your favorite?” the woman was asking.

“I don’t know,” Tifa said after a moment. She glanced at the sky, then directed a silent curse in Elena’s direction and reluctantly looked over the flowers. She had some time. This wasn’t how she had been planning to spend it, but nothing else had been panning out. “I don’t really know what these are.”

The woman blinked, as if that was unusual, and then lowered the basket so she could pick through the bouquets. She pulled up a bunch of small, bell-like pink flowers. “These are miniature hyacinths. It’s really popular this year to pin them to your skirts.”

“I…don’t think they match,” Tifa said. She shifted as the garden’s hum slid unpleasantly over her skin, then tried to look as if she’d been adjusting her clothes when the woman looked at her.

The woman looked Tifa over, then offered her an apologetic smile. “No, I suppose not. I’m so sorry, you must think I’m an idiot. Wait a moment, I think…”

“Those.” Tifa pointed to a bunch of white flowers, each the size of her thumb and star-shaped, with a drop of red in the center. “I know those. They used to grow on the m—where I grew up.”

“Oh, snowdrops.” With a small flourish, the woman extracted them from the basket. “So you’re from the north? How long did it take you to travel here?”

Cloud was much better at not saying anything he didn’t need to, Tifa thought, and then a sharp stab of worry went through her, followed by a shiver she couldn’t mask in time. The damn gardens, damn Ancients. She couldn’t even try to scry for Cloud; any kind of blood sacrifice would set the entire Temple against her.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. She’d lowered the flowers and was looking nervously at Tifa. “I’m…that was rude of me. I just never have been very far from here, so I always get excited when I hear about other people’s travels. You know, I’ve never even seen a mountain.”

“It’s not anything like here. It’s cold most of the time, and you only have flowers a few months out of the year.” Tifa took the snowdrops from the other woman and touched one of the petals. These were a little bigger than the scraggly ones she remembered, with smooth edges untouched by sleet or wildlife. “They’re not that far away. Maybe a week, if you take a caravan.”

“Are you a traveling mage?” the woman asked.

She’d seen the gemstones in Tifa’s gauntlets. And while Tifa had given in and put on a skirt, it was split for riding and she had her regular boots on underneath, instead of the soft slippers she’d seen on all the other women in the town. Probably not the best choice, but it didn’t look like the woman was alarmed by it. On the contrary. “Not a mage, not really. But I travel around a lot, and…I look into magical things. Mostly other people’s messes.”

The woman smiled at her again, bright and fascinated. “I’m Aeris,” she said, and put out her hand. Those were tan lines from bracelets on her wrists, at least one of which was an intricate filigree. “I’m pleased to meet you…”

“Tifa,” Tifa said, and shook Aeris’ hand. The other woman had a surprisingly firm grip, for someone so petite. And another thin line of pale skin around her throat, where her dress opened. A pendant necklace. “I was thinking about going to eat, actually. Do you know of anywhere?”

Aeris’ smile widened. “Of course I do! The best! Come on, I’ll show you.”

* * *

Rufus showed up in the stables. His arm was in a sling, and he had unhealed bruising down the side of his face. “Your priestess,” he said, “Needs discipline.”

Cloud ignored the man. After he’d calmed somewhat, he’d gone after Vincent. But hours and hours around the house, and the closest he’d come to the other man was a glimpse of red and black high on the roof, near the outer wall. He’d almost heard Chaos’ rumble in his head, offering him a long hard chase ending in a welter of blood.

Instead he’d gone hunting on his own. He hadn’t liked leaving the house, but Chaos _had_ said he’d watch them. And the elder couldn’t do anything with them dead, or captured, and he certainly couldn’t continue his play with them far enough apart. He could still try other tricks, but at least the three of them were armed now. And anyway, Cloud had needed to kill something. Badly.

“He’s not here,” Rufus sighed, coming over to stand by Cloud. He flicked his eyes over the gutted manticore hanging from the rafters, then dipped onto one knee. His eyes were reddening and his upper lip bulged momentarily as his fangs dropped. Then he curled his hand away from the blood pooled on the ground. “He’s not here, he’s out flying, and when he comes back we’ll have to kidnap a couple traders from the fair to make up the tithe. There, are you happy?”

Before he could help himself, Cloud laughed. Then he turned away and went to the wall, where assorted blades and other instruments were hanging. He picked out a set of forceps as long as his arm and a thin, flat blade with a rounded tip, and returned to the manticore to begin winkling out the poison glands at the base of the tail.

“I hear we’re headed for Midgar,” Rufus said.

“Chaos gave you his word, didn’t he?” Cloud found and removed the first gland easily enough, but the next was trapped behind an ingrown spine. He finally just cut out the flesh around the spine, took it down, and then began scraping that from the gland.

There was a cracking sound, bone on bone. When Cloud looked over, Rufus yawned again, spreading his mouth wide so his fangs fully extended. One of them was broken; after he’d finished the yawn, Rufus put his finger into his mouth and rubbed at it. His finger came out raw and red, but the skin was unbroken.

“Very well, cover your eyes and stop up your ears,” Rufus said. “It won’t stop anything.”

“What do you want?” Cloud said.

Rufus lifted his hand again and adjusted the knot of the sling around his neck. “Many things, Strife, but at the moment, I will settle for having my brother returned to me.”

“Lazard?”

“I’m sorry, have you found another byblow of my father’s?” Rufus said, tone acidic enough to match the poison in Cloud’s hand. “You do seem to be unearthing reams of the sordid past these days.”

Cloud pressed his lips together, then gave the other man his shoulder. He cleaned his tools and returned them to their places, and then he took up the poison glands again. They were the size and shape of apples, save for the faint, unappealing yellow glow, and when he bit into one, he had to slurp ungracefully to keep the poison from dripping onto his clothing and corroding it. The manticore had been feeding well.

“Your priestess—” Rufus started.

“Tifa isn’t going to hurt Lazard,” Cloud said, jerking down the gland. One last drop of poison fell on the stone floor and it sent up a thin stream of stinging smoke, swiftly etching a ragged hole. “He didn’t have to go, anyway.”

Rufus’ eyes flared red and he snapped at Cloud like a snake. Then he jerked himself backwards, running his good hand back through his hair. He was still shaking, and it took several seconds before his fangs withdrew enough for speech.

“I should’ve gone,” Rufus finally said. “If you and your damnable priestess would just understand that this isn’t about your _personal_ problems. You’re going up against an elder, Strife, and one powerful enough to have Chaos worried. If you think your lone warrior routine is going to serve you well, then you’re a fool.”

“Rufus,” said a low, warning voice.

Rufus dropped his eyes, stiffening. His hand clutched at the back of his neck hard enough for Cloud to see the flesh under it whiten. Then he raised his head, his face set into a stony calm, and turned around. “Yes?”

Vincent drifted into the stable. His cape was off and wrapped around a large, weakly twisting bundle under his arm, which immediately attracted Rufus’ attention. Still, the other man waited until he’d been gestured over, and even then he moved as if he had weights on every limb. He stood rigidly as Vincent dragged up the bundle and pressed one end of it into Rufus’ chest; the folds of cloth unraveled at the other end enough for Cloud to see a bare, bloody foot curling its toes against the flagstones. It wasn’t until Vincent curled his other hand against the side of Rufus’ face that Rufus relaxed, letting Vincent urge his head down.

The other manticore gland was just as full. Cloud took his time with it, careful not to spill anymore, and then he cleansed his hands and face with a quick spell. The empty glands crackled in his fingers like paper; he ran his thumb over one, then tossed both of them back into the manticore’s gut.

By then Rufus had left, taking his present with him, and Vincent had come to look at the manticore. He touched the horns with his clawed hand, then straightened.

“He’s correct,” Vincent said. “Chaos is worried.”

“Chaos is—” Cloud shut his mouth. Then he shook his head, and began to turn away. “If you wouldn’t talk to me before, then I don’t know why we need to talk now.”

“I had to fight him for this,” Vincent said, very near a snarl. But there wasn’t a trace of Chaos in his eyes. He worked his jaw once, which was more emotion than Cloud had seen in him since they’d woken him. “He only agreed because I persuaded him that otherwise you were likely to leave on your own, and then you went hunting on your own and he believed you _were_ leaving.”

After another moment, Cloud turned back around. He moved a few paces back, both so he could lean against the wall and so he could be within reach of his sword. “I thought about it. Tifa should be at the Temple by now, and she’s quick. I could go and meet her halfway.”

Vincent nodded curtly. “Fair enough.”

He never did think the worse of Cloud for moments like that, no matter what they could have done to their plans, or the balance of power between the elders, or other people’s moods. Nor did he ever seem to use them to cast doubt on Cloud’s trustworthiness. It was one of the reasons they normally worked well together. 

Right now, for an irrational moment, it inspired a vicious if fleeting urge to hit him. Cloud understood Tifa’s outburst a little better.

“I’ve wanted to leave for Midgar for several months now,” Vincent abruptly said. “Chaos refused. He wants to gather more forces before he confronts Hojo and whatever new project that man has. When you brought Sephiroth and the other two, he grew even more insistent. He killed the dead riders not because you asked, but because he was afraid they would attract too much attention. They will follow like vultures sometimes, when they sense two dark forces ready to clash.”

“I’m not his soldier,” Cloud retorted. “I’m not _his_. He should have just told me—”

“He believed you would refuse, and didn’t wish to pursue an exercise in futility.” A thread of dark humor slipped into Vincent’s voice. “Have you changed your mind?”

Cloud pressed his hands against his hips, then crossed his arms over his chest. “You couldn’t tell me?”

“Every time I tried, he came out,” Vincent said. His voice dropped and for a moment so did his eyes. “I cannot hold him off. I am not strong enough to overcome an elder demon.”

Nor was Cloud, even if he owed no real allegiance to Chaos. If he tried to take Chaos in a head-on fight, he’d die. Tifa would die. Probably everyone within a few miles would die. And if he and Tifa really tried to run, then Chaos would find them sooner or later. Chaos couldn’t _force_ him, not if he knew what was happening, but…even with Tifa’s help, he couldn’t protect himself against all of the demon’s tricks. The only real power he had was that even if Chaos got him to take on an acolyte—or whatever Chaos intended—Chaos couldn’t make him use them afterwards. They’d be _his_.

He closed his eyes against the sudden rush in his head. His father, telling him something. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Is he offering a bargain?” he finally said.

Vincent was looking at Cloud as if the man understood exactly what was seething in the back of Cloud’s head. “There’s a new Shinra expedition in North Corel, less than a day from here. They have a priest with them. Come hunt. Get the priest, and find out how Hojo revived Jenova. Then he may be willing to…agree to less drastic countermeasures.”

“Fine.” Cloud pulled himself off the wall and reached for his sword. “But none of them are coming. Just me and you.”

A whiff of sulfur rose into the air. Vincent’s voice deepened beyond the range of any human throat. “Agreed.”

* * *

Tseng held his ground in the face of Genesis’ sword point. “Strife informed me that you might be more comfortable if someone else carried out the procedure,” he said, looking past the steel to Sephiroth’s face. “It will take longer than if he was present, but it will get the job done. Or I can try to find him.”

“He was pretty fucking clear that he was going to kill us if we did that, though,” Reno said. “Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t mind, but think of it this way: we stay alive, Vincent doesn’t start getting hungry enough to eye you as a snack.”

The muscle of Tseng’s cheek twitched then, but he didn’t turn his head. The Turks were known for many uncomplimentary traits, but even Sephiroth had to admit that cowardice wasn’t one of them.

“Just let them in and get it over with,” Angeal groaned. He moved restlessly on the bed, then flopped his arm over his head, trying to rise. “Damn it. I feel like someone injected me with ice.”

Genesis glanced back, then lowered his sword with a theatrical sigh. “Consider yourselves read a litany of threats.”

“Considered, man.” Reno swung himself through the doorway and then busied himself with setting out surgical instruments.

His hands moved over them with an easy familiarity, though his shoulderblades hitched when Genesis sat down on the side of the bed with his sword and a whetstone. Tseng too was careful to keep his hands in sight as he moved around the bed, taking up a post near the head. He held out his hand to Reno, palm-up, and Reno slashed it with a scalpel. Then Tseng turned towards Angeal.

He seemed to expect Masamune at his throat. “None of it is going into him,” he said. “I just need it for a lure. I’m not as powerful as Strife.”

“Very well,” Sephiroth said, without lowering his blade.

Reno maintained a mutinous air, but at a whisper from Tseng, he readied a trocar and a lancet and then ducked under Masamune to kneel by the bed. He set a bowl on the floor, then nodded.

Tseng had cupped his hand so the blood welling in it didn’t spill out. Now he twisted his wrist to allow a drizzle into the bowl, murmuring something in Wutai. The blood slowed, then hung in the air, slightly corkscrewing, as if it was become a thin red worm. Angeal let out a muffled, pained grunt, and Sephiroth looked over to see that just as with Cloud, the blackness under Angeal’s skin was beginning to draw together.

When it had gathered into a boil the size of a man’s fist, Reno drove the trocar into it and then tilted the trocar’s end so that the poison ran into the bowl on the floor. It pooled there, black and revolting, before a tendril inched its way up the thread of blood hanging from Tseng’s hand.

Sephiroth withdrew his sword and Tseng snapped the thread with a quick twist of his wrist. Then he turned around. His eyes fell on a nearby brazier.

“Oh, allow me,” Genesis said, putting out his hand.

After a surly look at Tseng, Reno shifted his knees to let the other man at the bowl. Reno busied himself with removing the trocar and staunching the wound while Tseng passed the bowl to Genesis. When a curl of fire lapped out from Genesis’ fingers and scoured the bowl, the two Turks exchanged a long glance, but Tseng obediently passed over the bloody gauze as well.

“What do you want?” Sephiroth asked.

Reno’s brows rose. “You’re very fucking welcome, General.”

“Out.” Tseng licked his hand, then began to wrap it with one of the spare bandages, his movements brisk and efficient. He managed to time his ministrations to Reno’s sulky departure, knotting off the bandage just as the door shut. Then he looked up at the three of them. “Shinra has tripled its exports from the Corel mines in the last six months. There’s a new expedition going to check out a possible black opal strike, headed up by a priest from the main Midgar temple. Not Hojo.”

Priests only came out in the rare case that they located an ore pure enough to use for creating summons. More importantly, this priest would have to be highly placed and have a modicum of trust from Hojo, if he was allowed to conduct an inspection on his own.

“Strife and Vincent have already left to try to capture him,” Tseng went on. “They’ll be out at least twenty-four hours.”

“If you’re telling us in hopes that we’ll make a daring escape and rid you of the jealousy eating up your insides at your master having three brand new toys, you’ve miscalculated,” Genesis drawled. He flung the bowl aside—Sephiroth caught it before it smashed into the wall—and then picked up the whetstone. “Miss Lockheart still needs to return with Angeal’s cure, and besides, I find myself curiously reluctant to leave Strife to Valentine’s tender mercies. Perhaps it’s a distaste for heavy-handed romantic contrivances.”

Tseng laughed. He had never, in Sephiroth’s long acquaintance with him, expressed more humor than a dry, thin smile. “Romantic. I’m telling you because you have a day to figure out how to get Strife out of the way. When they come back, we’ll be heading for Midgar. And if Strife gets anywhere near Jenova, then he’s dead.”

“Explain,” Sephiroth said.

“Including your sources,” Genesis added. He’d set sword and whetstone aside, focused only on Tseng.

“I assume Strife’s told you about his parentage,” Tseng said. “He wasn’t brought up with a care to his paternal heritage, so he’s not as well-developed as any of you. It’s why his father sent him back.”

Sephiroth tapped one of the moonstones on his wrist band. “I have to question his father’s judgment. If this is indeed true.”

“He told me this,” Tseng insisted.

“He told you that his father rejected him?” Sephiroth said.

“He doesn’t remember what happened when he was with his father, but he knows things.” Tseng paused. He was, of course, too schooled to let a trace of it show, but he knew he’d struck a vein. “If Jenova gets to him, he’ll be easier to destroy than you three. That’s what Chaos wants with him. That’s why he’s been setting Strife at you. He’s trying to draw her out, and into Strife.”

“That’s not what I was told,” Sephiroth said, overriding Genesis’ comment. “And how would you know what Chaos’ motivations are? Are you confidant to him, now?”

For a moment Tseng merely gazed back at him, expressionless and still. Then the man sighed. He dipped his head and rubbed his bandaged hand across his eyes, then grimaced and jerked it down. “Of course not,” he said, with genuine weariness. “He’s an elder demon. He keeps his own counsel. But Miss Lockheart did us the favor of storming in and shouting at Vincent about what happened with the dead riders while Rufus was in the room. As for the rest, I’ve been serving Chaos for nearly a year. I don’t pretend to understand him, but I’ve learned something about demon hierarchy. Jenova carries a grudge against Strife’s father. She would be overjoyed to take him, and Chaos knows this very well. I find it difficult to draw any other conclusion.”

“I find it difficult to draw out your reasoning for telling us this,” Genesis said, with an irritated look at Sephiroth. “Isn’t your allegiance to Chaos?”

Tseng shrugged. “I bound over my soul to him, yes. My duty is to aid him.”

“And you do not believe that this plan of his aids him,” Sephiroth said.

They regarded each other. Then Tseng bowed with slow precision. “General.”

He straightened and made his way past Genesis and out of the room, shutting the door silently behind him. With a disgusted sigh, Genesis immediately rose and began pacing along the bed. “He’s lying. He’s a Turk, and serving an elder demon simply makes transparent what’s always been the case. He’s manipulating us and if you even _think_ of going off to glory and death on your own, Sephiroth, I will tear off your head with my bare hands.”

Accusing finger first, he stopped before Sephiroth. “Glory and death?” Sephiroth echoed.

“He means trying to kill this Jenova before anyone else does,” Angeal said. He grinned as they both started, then worked his way into a sitting position against the headboard. “Because that _was_ your first thought. Look, seriously, I agree that the messenger is suspicious, but any of it plausible?”

The question was addressed to Sephiroth. “Much of it would have to be confirmed with people who are all conveniently absent, and who will not return before we supposedly must leave,” he said slowly. “Although…it is true that Chaos has doubts about Cloud’s strength. But I believed that he was trying to improve Cloud, not sacrifice him.”

“You changed your mind?” Genesis asked. He didn’t wait for Sephiroth’s answer, but instead swung himself across the bed and towards the door. “Well, you two debate the likelihood of honesty from a Turk versus a demon. I’m for the library. It might be rude of me, but I feel there’s some merit in looking into Cloud’s mysterious father.”

* * *

The food was more than decent, and Aeris stood high enough in the bartender’s eyes to rate a semi-private alcove near the back. “I know his parents,” she said, urging another soft roll onto Tifa. “They used to bring the best fruits. And wine, too, all kinds of wine. Elderflower and grape and pomegranate, and sometimes, if there hadn’t been too many prayers, we’d…”

She drifted off, staring at the table. Her thumb had just gone straight through the roll she’d been offering. “You’re from the Temple,” Tifa said. She picked at the half-eaten roll she still had and managed to get butter all over her fingers and onto the back of her gauntlet. Frowning, she swiped at the greasy streaks with her napkin. “You’re a priestess.”

Aeris was straining to peer at her from under lowered lashes. “I—”

“It’s all right,” Tifa said, deciding. “I’m one, too.”

“Really?” Aeris said, her head jerking up. Then she ducked comically, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, that was loud. Oh, but that was why, then! That’s why the Temple said you were calling!”

Tifa nearly bit her tongue. “What?”

“Oh, no, it’s all right. If you don’t want anyone else to know, I’m not going to say anything,” Aeris said. She put her hand over Tifa’s arm and leaned forward, eyes bright and earnest. “I don’t know much, anyway. I just have dreams, sometimes, and last night I dreamed that someone was in the garden and asking for help. That’s why I sneaked out. Well, that and I haven’t been out of the Temple since the midsummer feast. I wanted to see the town before winter set in.”

Still a little stunned, Tifa slumped back and let Aeris’ chatter roll over her. They’d known that the Temple had strong protection on it, and could sense the approach of conflicting power, but everyone had assumed that they were just particularly complex warding spells. After all, the Shinra had managed to make a yearly pilgrimage. But this sounded almost as if an elder had taken up residence in the Temple.

Or whatever the opposite of an elder demon was. Tifa and Cloud had run across a demigod or two, but true gods appeared in this world much more rarely than demons. Sometimes Tifa wondered if they’d all just sneaked away at some point, not wanting to bother with people anymore.

“Tifa?” Aeris was looking oddly at her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m…I’m just tired.” Tifa attempted to smile at the other woman. “And a little surprised. I’ve…I’ve been worrying that I wouldn’t be able to get into the Temple.”

“Well, why not? You’re a priestess,” Aeris said. She absently reached up and pushed her fingers against her throat, over the pale outline of the necklace she wasn’t wearing. “You can ask a fellow priestess for help.”

And what kind of god would tell its priestess that Tifa was coming, but not mention what for, Tifa thought. “It’s sort of complicated. It’s…look, can we talk about this somewhere else?”

“Of course,” Aeris said, looking puzzled. Still, she called over the bartender and settled their bill, cheerfully dumping Tifa’s coins back into her purse. Then she led Tifa out the back way and down a few sleepy side streets.

They came out in a little courtyard with a broken, empty fountain in it, surrounded by the backs of buildings. One of them was a fair bit taller than the rest and probably cast the space into shadow for most of the day, making it unappealing to people. It definitely affected the plants, with mosses taking over when everywhere else in town was grassy.

“That used to be a little shrine,” Aeris said quietly. She pointed to one of the buildings and Tifa could just make out the bricked-over outline of a door, and at the building’s edges, the remains of a wall that had probably encircled the whole courtyard. “When there were a lot of visitors, too many for everyone to go to the Temple, a priest or priestess would come out and try to help the people who were left. But then there was an accident, and they closed it up.”

“An accident?” The moss was spongy under Tifa’s feet. She wasn’t sure she liked it, with how it made every step shift.

Aeris liked it. She plopped herself down and then spread her skirts so she stayed decent. Then she pressed her palms into the moss like a kneading cat, staring off into the distance. “An old man died. An attack of the heart. So they closed it, because it would have to be reconsecrated, and then they never opened it up again. That’s when they stopped letting us go into town whenever we wanted, too.”

Tifa took another step, then almost cursed as her boot slipped on a rock. She stepped back, testing her ankle. It was a little sore. Normally she could share in Cloud’s healing abilities, a little, but he hadn’t had a proper feeding since before they’d gone up to Hollander’s tower, and there was everything else going on. She didn’t want to draw on him and add that to his problems.

“They keep telling us it’s necessary, because our first duty is to preserve the Temple and we can’t waste our strength outside, but I don’t like it,” Aeris said. She looked up at Tifa, her eyes as green as the moss. “I just don’t think that the Temple was built to keep to itself, if that makes sense? I mean, you hear about all these terrible things happening outside, the king killing his own children, his generals vanishing…why not go out and help people? Not everyone can even make it as far as the town.”

At the mention of ‘generals,’ Tifa flinched. Then she looked sharply at the other woman, but Aeris didn’t seem to have noticed. Or if she did, maybe she just took it as Tifa agreeing with her about the horrors.

“That’s why I’ve been so excited over you. I know I probably come off as a little crazy, but it’s just…you’re a priestess, but you don’t just stay in a temple. You travel around and you do things.” Aeris actually sighed in happiness, and reached out to touch Tifa’s knee. “I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”

She was ridiculous. She didn’t know a thing, and she was too silly to even know how much she didn’t know, and yet she was just so…heartfelt about it. If Tifa told her the truth, she probably wouldn’t just cry and call Tifa a liar. She’d probably actually believe it.

“But I keep going on and on, and you’re here for help. Can I do anything?” Aeris said, still looking up at her.

“I’ve—I found this man who was possessed by an elder demon. He’s not anymore, but it left him very ill, and I can’t heal him by myself,” Tifa said. The other woman’s eyes widened, but she didn’t draw back just at hearing that Tifa had gotten close to a demon’s leavings. Most people didn’t even want to come near a survivor, believing that the demon would eventually come back for them. “He’s not well enough to travel, so I left him with some—people I know in Old Corel and came here to ask. But I know, because there’s a demon involved…”

Aeris nodded solemnly. “No, they’d never let him in. They’d be too afraid, especially if it’s an elder. Honestly, I don’t think any of the priesthood is strong enough to deal with one of them.”

“Well, I found a spell that should work.” Tifa squatted down next to Aeris and the woman looked at her like that again, like she was absolutely wonderful. She had to look away, and began fiddling with her gauntlets as an excuse. “When I was traveling, I found a lot of forgotten books, and one of them had something I think will work. But I can’t do it. It has to be somebody from the Temple.”

“Then I’ll come,” Aeris said immediately. “I’ll come and help your friend.”

She put out her hand. After a moment, Tifa took it, and helped them both to their feet. Elena had to have gotten to the garden by now, Tifa thought. If she’d found a boat, they’d come up with some way to get rid of it; if not, then they could leave that much sooner.

“We’ll have to sneak out of town.” Aeris kept hold of Tifa’s hand even after they’d started walking, and kept tugging on it for emphasis. Her brow was furrowed and occasionally her tongue would flick behind her lips. “I left some things at the tavern. My jewelry. I’m going to need it when I cast the spell. And maybe my staff. But I think that’s all. I have some money from my flowers so I can buy clothes and anything else I need, and anyway, we need to leave before they check the beds at nightfall.”

“How did you sneak out?” Tifa asked. She wasn’t comfortable with Aeris’ hand over her gauntlet and that close to her gems, but her furtive attempts to take back her hand were in vain.

Actually, Aeris seemed to think Tifa wanted her closer, leaning over so close that her lips almost ran into Tifa’s jaw when a bird unexpectedly flew up from near their feet. “I’m in charge of the gardens inside the Temple,” she said. “They’re used to me being out in them all day and not coming in until it’s time to sleep. There’s a…a way out through the wall that I use, and I talked a pilgrim whose daughter I helped into getting me something besides my priestess robes.”

Tifa started to say that they’d still have to get her different clothes—a Temple flower girl was just as distinctive as a Temple priestess—but sensed someone coming over the roofs towards them. She looked around, then tugged them into a niche formed where the outer wall of one house butted into the side of another. They were near one of the main streets and she could hear people, but the overhang would keep them out of side.

“What’s the matter?” Aeris asked, her voice low and soft.

“I just have a…a friend coming, and we should wait for her to catch up,” Tifa said. She noticed Aeris’ slight movement and, after a moment, squeezed the other woman’s wrist. “She was trying to find a way to get to the Temple besides the ferry, because we wanted to at least be able to ask at the door before they threw us out.”

“Oh, all right.” Some of the tension eased out of Aeris, but not all of it. She obviously believed Tifa, like she’d believed everything else Tifa had told her, but she wasn’t happy about something.

But then Elena dropped down from the roof. She had her empty smile on, the one that brightened her eyes without filling them. “Tifa! I thought I’d never find you.”

“Sorry. I met Aeris, here,” Tifa said. “Aeris, this is Elena. She’s had some run-ins with demons, too, but she’s not ill like He—like my friend.”

“Oh,” Aeris said slowly. “Well, pleased to meet you. I’m—I’m sorry to hear that that happened to you.”

Elena’s eyes flickered, but she merely gave Aeris a dismissive shake of the head. “It was a while ago. Tifa, we should probably go tell the others what progress we’ve made.”

“Two others came with us.” Tifa paused, then nudged Aeris. “One of them’s a _bixie_. Have you ever met one?”

Aeris shook her head, her eyes round with delight again. “No. No, I haven’t. Oh, are they really able to speak like a person?”

“Nanaki will correct your grammar, even,” Tifa said dryly. He hadn’t done that to her or Cloud, but he seemed to love irritating Reno that way. “Can you get your things and meet us back here?”

Aeris could, and would, and wouldn’t be more than five minutes. She was so excited she was almost skipping, but she stayed on the shadowed side of the street.

“You got us a priestess,” Elena said. She was leaning against the nearest wall when Tifa looked back, amused and irritated and little bit impressed. “We didn’t even have to sneak in. It doesn’t look like we’ll even have to _kidnap_ her.”

“It’s still a good thing you and Lazard came,” Tifa said after a pause. “It’s not like Aeris is asking permission to go, and she says they’ll notice that she’s missing when night falls. We’re going to have to run for it.”

“Well, that’s what we’re good for.” The bitterness in Elena’s voice would’ve sounded natural from Reno. She shifted away along the wall when Tifa came up to her, then tilted her head back. “What’d you tell her, to get her to come along?”

The way she asked that, she made it sound as if Tifa had lured a small child into a dungeon. As giddy as Aeris was, she was still a priestess and Tifa had told her demons were involved. And anyway, Tifa had done worse things to keep her and Cloud alive and sane, and Elena had been doing things like this since before she’d pledged herself to Chaos. It shouldn’t feel like anything new and Elena was just being difficult.

“Oh, never mind,” Elena sighed. She pushed herself away from the wall, absently running one hand over her forearm.

“You still haven’t healed that?” Tifa said.

Elena froze, looking as if Tifa had just drawn a weapon on her. Then her hand fell from her arm like a rock. “Does it matter? I can fight, and of course I can _run_. I’m not going to keep you from Strife, so don’t punch me.”

“You don’t know what Chaos did,” Tifa said tightly.

“Because I never _do_ ,” Elena hissed.

Tifa turned around and pressed her hands to the wall, trying to keep herself under control. They couldn’t start a brawl, not when they were so damn close to leaving. And Elena—

—Elena had been too quiet, the whole trip over. Tifa had been hoping they’d left before word had gotten around to everything about her and Vincent’s argument, but…well, that was stupid. Lazard had asked her about it.

“Forget it.” Elena had her back to the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, when Tifa looked up. She stared straight out in front of her. “It’s all above our heads, anyway. You shouldn’t have hit Rufus, all he was trying to do was keep Chaos from bleeding us dry afterward, and maybe breaking Vincent the next time he comes through. He wasn’t defending Chaos. We do _know_ Chaos doesn’t care about us, you know.”

“Then why do you go along with him?” Tifa asked.

“I gave him my soul.” Elena looked at Tifa like she was an idiot. “You can’t really take that back. And not all of us are lucky enough to get somebody like Strife, who probably doesn’t even know how to take a tithe.”

Tifa’s sympathy withered. “He does know.”

The other woman blinked in surprise. Then she resettled her arms across her chest, her mouth pressed tightly together. “Fine. Well, that’s your duty there, and not to care about us.”

“I don’t feel happy when Chaos hurts someone else, either,” Tifa finally said. “But I just—Cloud comes first.” She spoke over Elena’s irritated breath, before the other woman could speak. “He does, and I just don’t have much left after him. I can’t get in Chaos’ way for everyone.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Elena said, but she was looking less angry now. More tired. Her arm plainly hurt her; she had to loosen her grip on herself, letting her elbows sink down her sides.

She hitched them back up when Tifa reached for her, but let Tifa pull back her sleeve. The bandage was thicker than when they’d been in Tifa’s room in Old Corel, and when Tifa pressed down on it, she felt some moisture on her fingertips from the blood soaking through.

“Maybe Aeris can heal it,” Elena muttered. She shifted against the wall again, the back of one hand brushing against Tifa’s stomach. “What _did_ you tell her? She’s like…like me, on my first day.”

“I told her I’m a traveling priestess who’s helping a friend in need, and she wants to see the world,” Tifa said tiredly. She pulled Elena’s sleeve back down, then left her hand on Elena’s wrist. Then she sighed and lifted it to Elena’s shoulder. “Don’t scare her. If she doesn’t need to be, I don’t see any reason to.”

Elena snorted. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? I bet you’re glad Reno didn’t come.”

“Absolutely,” Tifa said. She rubbed her hand over Elena’s shoulder a few times. She should save her strength, but if they weren’t breaking into the Temple, then she might be able to spare Elena some blood.

Elena breathed in sharply, as if she knew what Tifa was thinking. She tilted her head off the wall…then abruptly shoved Tifa away. A moment later, Aeris came down the street, a little breathless. She paused when she saw them, then offered Tifa a hesitant smile.

“Sorry, did I take too long?” she said. “I had to wait for a big party of pilgrims to leave.”

“No, it’s fine. But we should get going.” Tifa held out her hand, and after another moment, Aeris took it.

* * *

Cloud hated flying.

He didn’t know if it was due to something he couldn’t remember—he _hoped_ it wasn’t, because the last thing he needed right now was to go into a fit while Chaos was carrying him several miles above the ground. As it was, he had given up on pride and dignity and had his eyes shut as tightly as was possible. 

“Here,” Chaos said, laughing. It sounded like a thunderstorm had exploded around them.

From past experience Cloud knew what he had to do, but it still took the sudden drop for him to force open his eyes. He saw a rocky hillside with a small clearing on its far side rushing up at him, and wrenched his arm up and behind his back to cut his wrist on his sword. Over to his left, a dark blur streaked purposefully towards the clearing.

By the time he got his arm back in front of him, tents and a fire had become visible in the clearing. Cloud _pushed_ through the blood streaming from his wrist and his fall slowed sharply, then ceased.

Men had come spilling out of the tents, wielding guns and swords. One or two of them threw spells as well, but they either burst into harmless showers of sparks against Cloud’s magic, or were snapped up by Chaos like tidbits tossed to a hawk. Two broken bodies already littered the clearing courtesy of the elder demon’s dives.

But they needed the priest. Cloud set himself down on the edge of the clearing, near the largest tent. He licked shut the wound on his wrist while drawing his sword with his other hand; unnecessary for defense, since Chaos had progressed to beating up a whirlwind with his wings. The strength of it kept all the soldiers flattened and well away from Cloud.

One slash opened up the back of the tent. It was empty. Cloud walked through it, picking up a frantic trail that tumbled out the front of the tent and down the hillside. He jumped up onto a nearby boulder, then leaped down half the hill to another rock. Then again, which put him right behind the fleeing priest.

The man shrieked and tripped over his trailing robes, his elaborate headdress toppling off. He immediately started to crawl away, scrabbling at the ground so energetically that Cloud had to kick his wrists to get him to let go. One of them snapped and the man went limp from the pain; he was little trouble to haul back up to camp after that.

Chaos had killed all the soldiers and was lounging amid their bodies, idly pulling the gore off his claws. He raised his head as Cloud approached, shifting up into a crouch. “Come. Let me see what this priest has to say about Jenova.”

Cloud let go of the man, then stepped back as he fell with a strange slackness. He couldn’t have died from fright, could he—he looked elderly, yes, with silver hair fanning out over the ground…

The man abruptly twisted over, far too assured in his movements. His face was young, young and _Sephiroth_ , and his eyes were green and Cloud heard Chaos roar, felt the elder demon reaching for him, but he was locked in place. Staring at those green eyes.

It wasn’t Sephiroth. The flesh was already turning black and disintegrating from the possession, but the flesh didn’t matter. Sephiroth didn’t matter. All there was, was green, and all the green was in Cloud.

* * *

Eventually Genesis had agreed that they would not attempt to call up Cloud’s father. They already had one elder demon actively trying to orchestrate their lives, and were still recovering from the attentions of another. Even if it would answer the question of who was worse, between Chaos and Jenova, it would hardly resolve their problems. But Genesis still insisted that looking into Cloud’s parentage was worth trying, and in the end Sephiroth had left him and Angeal in the library.

He had a point, but he didn’t seem to understand how constrained they were. The library did seem to house an unusual number of texts on demons, but it belonged to Chaos and Sephiroth found the likelihood very slim that the demon had left a helpful reference within reach. Besides, if Tseng had been correct, they had less than a day. Hardly sufficient time for research.

Although, Sephiroth admitted to himself, it was hardly sufficient time for anything. They were tied to Old Corel till Tifa returned with Angeal’s cure, and as much as Sephiroth itched for a direct solution, armed confrontation was not viable either. They clearly couldn’t be in close contact with Cloud, with or without the added presence of Valentine, and taking on Chaos likely wouldn’t succeed without Cloud’s help, since they needed the man to remove the last of their bindings.

Cloud, of course, had left with Valentine. Sephiroth didn’t understand it. As far as he could discern, Cloud did not agree with Chaos’ plan—either the version related by Cloud or that related by Tseng. He vehemently did not agree with it. So why he would still go out with Valentine, _alone_ , when he knew full well how vulnerable he was to Chaos’ manipulations…it was insensible.

“Ah,” said a voice behind him.

Sephiroth stiffened. “You’re disabled,” he said.

Angeal still sat down on the roof next to him, breathing irregularly. “You are so charming. I came to see if you’d taken off for Midgar yet. And before you ask, Genesis didn’t come because I told him you two aren’t to duel until I’m well enough to stop you.”

“Of course I haven’t left. I’m not at full strength, I have little information as to the situation there and I’m well aware that the last time we encountered Hojo, it was a disaster, and we still don’t know how to counter the possibility of a repetition,” Sephiroth said. He put his hand out and pushed Angeal against the water tank behind him, sliding forward to make room for the other man. Then he got to his feet and looked out over the city.

Valentine’s house had an excellent view. All the city gates could be seen, as well as the main marketplace and the major temples. With its strong walls it could easily be converted into a fortress.

“You hate this, don’t you?” Angeal said.

They could deal with Rufus Shinra and the Turks, but keeping out Chaos while allowing Cloud and Tifa passage was well beyond their capabilities at the moment. Yet another dead end.

“Sephiroth.” Angeal was moving as if he meant to stand. The alacrity with which he ceased when Sephiroth went over to him, and the slight glint of satisfaction in his eyes, was infuriating. But then his expression softened. He put out his hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I am,” Sephiroth said, “The culmination of years of study, experimentation and practical military experience. And I cannot—”

“You’re a man too, damn it, and we’re facing elder demons. The last time an elder demon was truly active in this world, my great-grandfather was planting dumbapples in Banora,” Angeal snapped. He glowered at Sephiroth for another moment, then sighed and gestured for Sephiroth to sit. “Honestly. If we weren’t so distracted by everything else, I’d think we’d be marveling at how many mythological beings we’ve met in the flesh, at this point.”

Sephiroth remained on his feet.

Angeal squinted at him, irritated, and then put his hand down. “I tend to lean towards your interpretation,” he said. He tipped his head back against the water tank. “Tseng’s an intelligent man, and I think he is genuinely afraid of what happens if his demon lord gets his way. But Cloud doesn’t seem that much of a fool, either. Do you really think he’d go with Valentine if he thought Chaos wanted to kill him?”

“Well, then why…” Sephiroth turned around, frowning. He’d heard the blast of a horn.

The sounds continued, forming an unmistakable tune. And they weren’t a hallucination, either; he heard Angeal’s sharp inhale as the other man recognized it. That was the song played whenever a priest of Shinra approached.

There was no Shinra temple in Old Corel. The city had a small government office—on the opposite side from Valentine’s house—but a half-forgotten bargain made generations ago had allowed Old Corel to keep its own gods, so long as it provided a tithe equivalent to the upkeep of a Shinra temple. That had undoubtedly been why Valentine and his demons had chosen to settle here.

Masamune was waiting atop the water tank. Sephiroth leaped up, seized it, and was off before Angeal had a chance to stop him.

He wasn’t headed for the main gate, where the horns were. Every Shinra representative in the city would be there, and even if he had enough magic restored to cast illusion spells, there was no point in risking needless recognition. He wanted to see who had come, and for what reason, and to accomplish that he merely needed a suitable viewing point near the procession.

Sephiroth settled for the steeply-sloped join of two wings of a house just off the main marketplace, where the elaborate roof ornamentation offered him sufficient cover. He waited only a few minutes before the priest’s entourage began to trickle into the square; Old Corel was not a large city, and it was fairly advanced into the evening. The priest likely wanted to get the formalities over with and retire.

Group of middling size, mostly servants. The priest rode in a litter and Sephiroth didn’t recognize the banners that fluttered about it, but Hojo had always been ruthless about eliminating potential rivals, so that wasn’t surprising. The main temple alone had likely had a complete turnover in the time that Sephiroth had been imprisoned.

A troop of soldiers followed the litter, which _did_ give Sephiroth pause. Especially when he spied their glowing eyes, the sign of Shinra’s elite guard. They all had regulation swords, so Hojo hadn’t managed to fully replicate his experiments with Jenova, but Sephiroth didn’t recognize any of them. And while it had been two years, there had been no significant wars. The king’s purge had been directed at the Shinra heirs and the Turks, not at the army.

The litter stopped in the center of the square, before a small platform used for speeches. Its curtains shivered and Sephiroth—felt—

He recognized the pressure in the back of his head too late, resisting after the snake had bitten. His feet crossed the roof without his telling them to, and his head lifted to meet the gaze of the man who leaned out of the litter. The man who looked like him, but who spoke with her voice, promising him soothing him making him—making—hate she hated hated hated loved loved loved he was hers hers he was _hers_ and he would not be taken away she loved him loved him would wash away the touch of the other who had—tried—he _remembered_.

Something clawed at him from the inside out, and something from the outside in, and he remembered, remembered that last time they had been reversed, that it had been Jenova rearing up, trying to keep hold of him against the flood washing her away.

She wasn’t him. He might have offered himself up to her once, but she was lying, telling him that she had never let go.

His head splitting in agonizing pain, Sephiroth jerked it down between his knees. Distantly, as if observing another, he knew his foot had slipped, and that he was falling off the roof. His hands were welded to his head so he would not be able to catch himself.

And then he was lying on the edge of the square, his head hurting, his leg and side and both arms hurting. Shouts. The ground trembled under him, many people running towards him. He dragged himself up and through a wildly tilting haze, he saw that thing’s face. Her face, now. Anger cut through the pain, just for a moment, but it was long enough for him to toss a spell.

Weak. Barely any sparks, but the litter’s curtains were filmy silk. It caught fire in an instant, and suddenly Sephiroth was clear-headed. Still injured, his knee giving out under him as he twisted and cast about for Masamune. Someone was almost on him. He braced himself on his good leg and threw himself forward.

Before he could reach it, Masamune was jerked up by another. Sephiroth looked up, watching the unsteady sweep of the blade, and then got to his knees in time to steady Angeal before the man fell onto his sword. He shoved his arm under Angeal’s, then yanked the sword away from him and slashed out again.

His swing was hardly better, but it made the soldiers scatter back another couple of yards. They were shocked and frightened, some of them staring so hard that they tripped over their own feet, but given another few seconds, at least some of them would notice that the resurrected Generals weren’t nearly as strong as they used to be.

“Tunnel,” Angeal grunted. His face was ashen and beads of sweat were rolling down his cheek. “Five yards back, two left.”

“Not till we kill—”

A sudden eruption of fire in the center of the square made everyone turn around. The wavery black outlines of the litter were barely visible through the flames.

“I brought a damned Turk, all right, it’s done, now _go_ ,” Angeal snarled at him.

Sephiroth heaved Angeal’s arm over his shoulder, then dragged the two of them to their feet. He pushed away the complaints of his body and stumbled in the direction that Angeal had told him. The shouts behind him indicated that some of the soldiers had gotten over the death of their charge, and were blaming him and Angeal. Reminding everybody that they were supposed to be dead, so this was clearly some demon’s trick.

“Fine time to have a sense of humor.” Angeal dropped off Sephiroth’s shoulders and onto his hands and knees next to what appeared to be a bricked-over window, half of it disappearing below the level of the street. He pushed at it and the bricks swung back. “Just push me through, it’s not that far a drop inside.”

The rawness of his laugh still ached in Sephiroth’s throat, but again, he did as Angeal said. Then he followed, sliding through feet first so he could ensure Masamune came through without impaling either of them. He dimly sensed the other man underneath and angled to avoid landing on Angeal, only to collide roughly with the far wall. Angeal had recovered enough to roll wide of Masamune’s jerking tip.

“Genesis?” Sephiroth hissed.

“Library, hopefully,” Angeal muttered. He pushed himself up against the other wall. “Sent Tseng to make him wait. And Reno’s on the other side of the square now. The counterweight’s on your side.”

Sephiroth felt nothing behind his back. He reached out to search the wall to his side, then whirled as the tunnel briefly dipped into darkness, then flickered in the sparks struck off the window’s brick cover by Masamune.

“Holy…” The voice was young and male, and strangely awestruck. “It is you! That’s Masamune! You and—”

There was a grinding sound, well above the voice. The bricks swung back into place, apparently from Sephiroth’s blow, and they were in pitch black darkness. Whoever their guest was, they were far too close to Angeal for Sephiroth to strike blindly, and while his eyes could adapt to the lack of light, it was not quite instantaneous.

Before they did, a burst of white nearly made him swing out anyway. Thankfully it quickly resolved into a small glowing orb, cradled in the hand of a young soldier who was hunched over Angeal.

“Angeal Hewley!” the man was saying. “You’re not dead! I knew Shinra was lying! Closed coffin, my ass!”

Then he spun around. He stared at Sephiroth, then at Masamune, hovering only inches from his face. The idiot actually started to reach out to _touch_ it.

Angeal managed to slap down his arm. “Kid, you have the self-preservation instincts of a puppy,” he muttered.

“Are you with the priest?” Sephiroth snapped.

“He’s kind of a crisp now, I think,” the man said, blinking. He looked around the tunnel, then at each of them. “So…we’re running from everybody out there?”

Sephiroth looked at Angeal, who thought it over and then nodded. He trusted Angeal’s judgment, but…he listened to the muffled shouts outside. The priest might be dead but someone had managed to corral his entourage, and they were shouting that the entire city had to be searched for the assassins. “Help him up,” he snapped. “What’s your name?”

“Zack. Zack Fair,” the man grunted, struggling under Angeal’s weight. “How—”

Angeal gave him a hurried explanation, which Sephiroth ignored in favor of assessing their options. The tunnel ran roughly perpendicular to the direction they needed to go; Sephiroth looked at Angeal again, but the other man shook his head. Very well, one end was shorter than the other, and seemed to turn in the correct direction. They’d go that way.

* * *

Aeris was delighted to meet Nanaki, who, thankfully, merely flicked his tail a few times—earning a shower of questions from Aeris about the flames, their changing color, the meaning of each color, and grooming care—and then settled down to distract her while Elena and Tifa retrieved the coach. And Lazard.

Tifa had been trying to think of an excuse to explain him. When asked, Lazard said he didn’t remember any priestess matching Aeris’ description, but that didn’t mean that Aeris wouldn’t recognize him. Even if they hadn’t met during Lazard’s previous visits, Aeris would’ve seen him and been told who he was. At the very least, she would have met Rufus and the king, and the Shinra did look very much like each other.

“So tell her I escaped my death and am in hiding,” Lazard suggested. “The farther we go from the Temple, the more she’ll see of our true natures, whatever we try to mask them. We might as well not complicate the lies.”

“Well, what about why you’re here?” Elena said.

Lazard considered the question. “I fell in with Tifa during one of her trips, and decided that working on the fringes of the empire to root out monsters was fair penance for my…my crimes done under the king’s orders against the innocent. My crimes against the king. Whichever side she happens to fall on. That should appeal to her adventure-seeking side, and anyway, it’s true enough.”

The harshness of his tone made even Elena look sharply at him, but Lazard merely continued checking over the coach, running a scouring spell over the spotless wood.

They had met during a job involving the breaking of a demonic summons, so Tifa and Cloud could send the demon inside back to Cloud’s father for further punishment. And Chaos had deigned to help because he saw a chance to remove a potential rival from his territory. As for what he’d done when he’d been the Shinra minister of defense, he had had a fairer reputation than most of the other ministers, but he’d still been Shinra. He certainly hadn’t shied away from the changes in his life since.

“I think it’s clean,” Elena finally said, pulling Lazard’s arm away from the coach’s back wheel. “I ate before we left Old Corel, should be fine for a few days. She knows there’s something off about me, but I think as long as we don’t feed, she won’t figure it out.”

“Nanaki and I saw to our needs some time ago.” Lazard stared at the coach, then gave himself a brisk shake. He ran one hand through his hair, adjusted his glasses, and turned around with a pleasant expression on his face. It looked genuine.

He paused when he heard Tifa follow him, but his expression didn’t change. He let Tifa escort him to where Aeris and Nanaki were having a very serious discussion about—the propriety of love charms, of all things—and introduce him. And he was pleasant to Aeris, who was shocked to recognize him but who was quickly and effortlessly disarmed by Lazard’s humbly dismissive attitude. The Temple leadership did not approve of the Shinra king, had actually been close to sending a representative when they’d heard of the king’s purges, and had been completely relieved when the king had missed the next yearly visit, since that had allowed them to avoid having to refuse him.

As for Aeris, she did like Lazard’s story about going around and fighting monsters as a fugitive prince. And she loved the coach, exclaiming over the spellwork that made it move without any outside help, wanting to look more closely at the gems that powered it. She didn’t notice Elena shutting the side panel, or the thump of Nanaki climbing onto the roof, and it was only when the coach began to move that her voice faltered.

“It’s getting late,” Tifa said.

“Oh, of course.” Aeris looked uncertainly around, then brightened when Lazard opened one of the windows. She shifted towards the sunlight that drifted inside. “I left a note at the bar. Hopefully that will buy us a little more time.”

“A note?” Elena said sharply.

Tifa glanced warningly at her, then turned back to Aeris, trying to look interested but not alarmed. “What did it say?”

“Just that…that I found a new type of plant in the garden, that only blooms at night, and that I was going to stay out to study it,” Aeris said apologetically. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want them to be upset with you. If they get the wrong idea, they might even ask the king to send soldiers.”

“Well, it’s going to be a quick trip. We won’t keep you too long.” Tifa put her hand against the wall as the coach jolted, then noticed that Aeris had lost her balance and actually fallen on both hands.

They’d had to strip out some of the spellwork to make sure that the Temple wouldn’t get suspicious at the coach’s approach. Now that they were leaving, Elena and Lazard could probably put some of it back, but it’d have to wait till Aeris was asleep. For now, Tifa just helped Aeris up and then offered her a fur to cushion herself with.

Aeris took it, smiling in thanks, and then winced as a soft growl echoed through the coach. She put her hand to her stomach. “Sorry.”

“You were so busy trying to stuff me with rolls you didn’t have any,” Tifa concluded. She reached for her things, only to have Elena hand her a small paper-wrapped package.

Elena nodded at them, then retreated to the other end of the coach to speak quietly with Lazard. Nothing too important, just discussing whether all of the visitors to Old Corel’s fair would be gone by the time they arrived, but Aeris frowned at them so intently that Tifa had to tap her on the shoulder. Startled, Aeris bumped her elbow into Tifa’s side, then apologized, blushing. She looked down at the unwrapped package. “Oh! Sweet buns!”

The fresh smell of them tugged at Tifa’s own belly, and she sat down to share with Aeris. Besides, it’d probably look better if Aeris wasn’t the only one eating.

“You have a lot of interesting friends,” Aeris said, picking apart one bun. A slick of frosting dribbled over her fingers and she wiped it off with her thumbnail, then quickly licked it off, dipping her head a little so her bangs swept in to hide her mouth. “Um. I’m sorry, I just mean…there’s nothing wrong with them.”

“No, they’re pretty different,” Tifa said. She saw Elena twitch and then Lazard reached over and put his arm around Elena’s neck, pulling her head down onto his shoulder. Then she put a piece of bun into her mouth. It was pillowy, soft with butter, but it left her throat a little dry. “You tend not to meet ordinary people in the places I end up.”

“Is it really terrible, dealing with demons?” Then Aeris flushed. “Everything keeps coming out wrong today. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Tifa shrugged it off and dug out the waterskins. She tipped her head back and had a few mouthfuls, then offered the skin to Aeris. The other woman was still as red as a cut pomegranate, and staring at Tifa so hard that for a moment Tifa wondered if she’d sprouted fangs. Then Aeris’ eyes widened. She jerked her head down and nearly dropped the skin Tifa offered her.

“I only saw a demon once,” Aeris said. Her fingers fluttered nervously along the top of the waterskin. “When I was very little. There was an exorcism at the Temple and I sneaked in to watch. I don’t remember much except that when it came out, it had this—this _shriek_. Like…like it was so…afraid.”

That was a little odd. One exorcism and that was what she noticed? “Demons are…I don’t know, maybe I’ve seen so many,” Tifa muttered. “I’m just tired with them these days.”

“You’ve seen more than one?” Aeris said, blinking rapidly. “Are you an exorcist, too?”

Damn. Well, they were going at a good pace now, and Lazard had had a point about keeping the lying to a minimum. Tifa could do it, but she didn’t live and breathe it. “I’ve done some, but mostly, we—I—it’s clearing out summons. You know, out in the mountains and in the desert, places like that, there are a lot of forgotten things. And if you just leave a summons alone for too long, whatever’s inside can sometimes get out by itself.”

Aeris nodded slowly, then took a tentative sip from the waterskin. She didn’t look like she was used to them, so Tifa helped hold up the bottom of the skin for her. Even so, Aeris spilled a little water on her cheek; Tifa wiped it off with one hand, then paused, watching the dull red spread over Aeris’ skin. Then Tifa sat down and bit too hard into her next bun, her teeth going straight through into her tongue.

Wincing, she put down the bun and pressed her hand to the side of her face. She didn’t hear Elena’s or Lazard’s voices, but she refused to look over. Elena probably had picked up on it earlier; she wasn’t as bad as some of the Turks in holding things over Tifa’s head, but she’d been in that damn mood before.

“So you and Elena and Lazard…” Aeris started.

“No,” Tifa said without thinking. Then she sighed and dropped her hand. She just wanted to be back at Old Corel, and see Cloud, and know that he was still himself. “No, well, usually it’s just me and my friend. I’ve known him since we were kids, and we learned about demons together.”

Aeris opened her mouth, then closed it. She darted nervous little looks at Tifa before drawing a deep breath and putting her hand on Tifa’s arm. “Is he the one that’s ill? The one we need to help?”

Tifa rubbed at the side of her face, then at the back of her neck. Her muscles wouldn’t relax, but just slid away from her fingers, like somebody had inserted stones under her skin. “No, he’s…”

“I shouldn’t pry,” Aeris said quietly. She still had her hand on Tifa’s arm. “It’s just…you know, my dream…it was so…I’ve never had one like it. It was dark, and cold, and I think there was snow. And there was someone crying. I couldn’t see them but I could hear them, and I tried to go to them but I couldn’t. And they just kept calling for help, but you could tell they’d been screaming for so long—they knew no one was coming but they kept screaming.”

After a long, slow breath, Tifa turned to face the other woman. She almost wanted to find Aeris smiling, or with that silly excited look in her eyes, or even tearing up over things she didn’t know anything about. Anything that’d let Tifa just push her off. But instead Aeris was solemn and still, just watching her.

“It sounded like a little girl,” Aeris continued after a long silence. “And then they were calling for someone—someone in particular, I couldn’t make out the name, but I think it was a boy’s name. And the girl wanted the boy to come back, so badly. And I woke up, and I heard the garden say that someone was coming.”

Tifa couldn’t—sit. She got up, then cursed as the coach picked that moment to jerk around under her feet. She barely caught herself on the ceiling, and then Elena was grabbing at her, telling her to stop moving around. The coach swung again and sent Tifa into the side panel. She slapped her hand against it, found the catch, and slid it open.

The night air hit her like a chilly slap, and then there was a wave of heat over the top of her head as Nanaki rumbled a question. Tifa ignored him and held onto the edge of the roof, staring out at the countryside.

She had one look at the moon over their heads, waning, a sickly yellow, and then everything rushed up around her.

Someone dragged her back into the coach. They sat on her, shaking her shoulders, slapping her face, and then she screamed and threw them off, twisting to smash them into the floor. A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she swung back her fist. Bone cracked. The hand fell away and then she was out in the field, stumbling, chasing something that had already slipped out of her reach. He’d _promised_ her.

She’d promised. She’d _promised_. Tifa dropped to her knees, tore off her gauntlet, and then bashed her wrist into the metal hand-guard until the blood came. Then she threw her arms wide, praying. She reached and she reached and the more she reached, the farther he went from her, until there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing.

* * *

No one found their way into the tunnels, but it took far too long for Sephiroth to navigate back to Valentine’s house, and then they had to wait for one of the Turks to let them into the cellar. By the time they’d dragged Angeal up to the main floor, the man was nearly unconscious.

Genesis met them there, his accusations dying in his throat when he saw Angeal. He dropped to his knees and cradled Angeal’s head in his hands, cursing softly while Sephiroth brought him up to speed.

“That priest was one of Hojo’s new inductees, too,” Fair said. “They’re all…something’s wrong with them. They wear tons of perfume, till you’re practically gagging on all the frankincense, but you can still smell the rot underneath.”

By then Rufus Shinra had joined them. He leaned against the wall, occasionally issuing an order to a passing Turk. They were closing up the house as best they could, shuttering windows, barricading the gate, filling the front courtyard with booby-traps. “Reno says that nothing was left of the litter,” he said. “But there are several mages in the late priest’s entourage. We can resist for a few hours, but most of the wards are keyed to Vincent and neither he nor Strife have returned yet.”

“Can we fight?” Genesis asked, looking up. He narrowed his eyes upon seeing Fair. “And who is…”

“Fair, sir,” Zack said. He had to use his hand to turn his wide-eyed face away from Rufus, and it seemed to be out of genuine necessity. Then he gave himself a sharp shake. “I was just starting training when you three disappeared. Angeal taught a few of my sword classes, but…guess he doesn’t remember me.”

“I wouldn’t train anyone foolish enough to try and touch Masamune,” Angeal muttered. Then he winced and grabbed at his side, hiking up his shirt. The flesh underneath was deep black. “That thing—it caught me, too. Couldn’t shake it out of my head. And I think—I think it sped this up.”

“That’s what you said then t—oh.” The bright spark of Fair’s eyes dimmed when he caught sight of Angeal’s side. He lifted his hand and then put it promptly down at Genesis’ glower. “Anyway, I’m not going to help hand you three over to that mess outside. I don’t know what’s going on, but if you didn’t die in Wutai, we should be celebrating. Not trying to kill you.”

Rufus laughed, with two thin white fangs prominently displayed. “Are you so stupid as to not recognize what we are?”

“Maybe you’re demons, but I think that thing out there is worse,” Zack insisted. He looked back and forth between Rufus and Sephiroth. “I’ve—I’ve _seen_ it before. In the Shinra temple in Midgar. I was there for my induction, and I saw it. Only the body was fat, and at least ten years older. That thing can jump.”

“Into you?” Sephiroth said.

“Well, you see it do that, feel free to take a swing at me,” Zack said. “But I don’t think so. I feel sick around those things, even though nobody else does. Or maybe they do, but they don’t remember. There’s something going on in people’s heads.”

Sephiroth flinched, then lowered his hand from Masamune. He needed to think logically, not descend into hysterics. If Jenova was able to possess Zack, then she’d likely be able to strike out at Sephiroth or any of the others as well. In the meantime, they had what sounded like a small army approaching the house.

“We need to get out of here,” Genesis said quietly. “This place isn’t stocked for a siege.”

“It is, just not for the likes of you,” Rufus said. He shrugged off Genesis’ baleful look and held out something to Sephiroth.

It was small and oblong, the size of a hen’s egg. A deep crack marred the emerald’s smooth surface, but Sephiroth could still feel the magic swirling weakly inside the broken summons.

“That should revive you enough to get outside the city walls.” Rufus paused as Tseng approached, but the other man only strode by, a pair of rifles under his arm. “It’s the only one we have. Strife left it in his things—Chaos dislikes having summons around.”

“We can’t resist Jenova effectively enough to fight off the rest,” Sephiroth finally said. “We will have to leave.”

“Now there’s the strategic brilliance my father paid so dearly for,” Rufus drawled. He settled back on the wall, ignoring Genesis’ growl. “Tseng can provide a map if you can’t remember your way to the back gate. We’ll—”

Angeal forced himself upright, despite Genesis’ belated push at his shoulder. “Wait.”

“We can’t leave.” Rufus looked unconcerned, but his posture was stiff and his hand flexed at his hip. “Valentine told us to stay till he returns. Therefore, we have to stay.”

“You can’t hold out for that long. If they manage to deploy a cannon in the street, they’ll get in,” Angeal said.

“I’m touched, Hewley,” Rufus said. He pulled himself from the wall and began walking away from them. “We’ll buy you some time.”

Sephiroth had never cared for the man, but he did believe that the man’s intransigence would make him put up a fight. At any rate, they had no time to worry about him, or his servants.

But when he knelt by Angeal, the other man jerked away. He paused, and then both he and Genesis reached out, but Angeal shook his head. “No, you take it,” Angeal said. He pressed his hand to his side again. “It’ll be wasted on me. Even if we drained my side again, which we don’t have time to do—”

“We’re not _leaving_ you,” Genesis hissed. He grabbed for Angeal and drew blood when the other man fended him off. Then he swore, pressing his hand over the cut on Angeal’s forearm. “You stupid, _stupid_ man, how many times do I need to tell you? I refuse to let you die because of a silly point of honor.”

“‘My friend, the fates are cruel,’” Angeal said, grinning. He touched the side of Genesis’ face, and when the other man bowed his head, twisted his arm away from Genesis’ hand. “It’s not a point of honor, idiot. It’s strategy. At least one of us has to make it to Midgar to kill that bastard. You can’t travel with me slowing you down. I’m not going to be the one who’s responsible for Hojo’s success.”

Genesis opened his mouth, but instead of a barbed retort, a hoarse, ragged noise came out. He shook his head, slowly at first but speeding up quickly, and then abruptly pulled himself back on his heels. His hand rose as if to strike Angeal, then fell.

“I’ll make sure he stays alive, sir,” Fair said softly.

“Absolutely not,” Angeal said. He cocked his brow at the soldier’s surprised face, then looked up at Sephiroth. “If he’s really immune to Jenova’s power, then you should take him with you. You’ll need someone to watch you while you rest, and a puppy’s better than nothing.”

“But—” Fair started.

Angeal sighed. “I’m ordering you. For whatever kindness I showed you before, soldier, you keep my friends alive.”

Fair bit his lip. He looked at Sephiroth, then at Angeal. Then he nodded tightly.

“You bastard.” Genesis looked at Angeal for a moment later, his face settling into a blank calm. “All right.”

Then Genesis began to rise, but Angeal caught him by the sleeve. He drew the other man down, his eyes closing as their heads neared each other; Genesis shut his a moment later. Then he rested his brow against Angeal’s, his mouth twisting, his hands opening and closing by his legs.

When Genesis straightened, he was truly calm, with eyes that promised cold, sure death. He stepped past Sephiroth without a backwards look, merely saying that he’d wait in the cellar. Sephiroth looked at the summons in his hand, then reached into the magic contained inside. 

It was cool and fluid, curling into his own magic like a rivulet joining a greater stream. For a moment he felt a pressure in his nose and mouth, as if the air had thickened, but that quickly passed. Not nearly so painful as the stream of dead souls, no thinning of self. He blinked back to full awareness and the summons was heavy and dead in his hand. He let it drop, where it fractured into half a dozen pieces against the tile.

“You’re angry,” Angeal observed. “I was hoping this time, the last thing I saw wouldn’t be your anger.”

“And Genesis surely was hoping you would willingly quote ‘Loveless’ under different circumstances, but this is not a day for wishes,” Sephiroth said tightly. He put his hand on the floor to rise, then lifted it and put it over Angeal’s knee. Then he took it away, and got to his feet. “I _will_ end this. Fair, to me.”

Blinking, Zack scrambled off the floor and after Sephiroth. He tried to speak once or twice, but wisely gave that up before they descended into the cellar.

Tseng was already there, standing with Genesis and explaining in a detached tone how to reach the back gate. He slowed when Sephiroth approached, then finished quickly and swung open the tunnel entrance.

Genesis went in first, followed by Zack. Sephiroth lingered a moment. “Whatever your fate, if you fail him, I’ll find you,” he told Tseng.

“General,” Tseng said. His head was still dipped when Sephiroth stepped into the tunnel.

* * *

Tifa woke slowly, sluggishly. Her right arm was in terrible pain, especially the underside of her wrist, but when she tried to move it, it wouldn’t respond. A fuzzy sort of alarm began to grip her. It only sharpened when someone put their hand on her forehead.

“Hush,” they said. “It’s all right, it’s—Tifa!”

She bolted upright and backwards into a crouch, absently noting that her legs and her head hurt as well. The coach loomed up in front of her, and in between, sitting before Tifa, Aeris reached out her hand. 

It was night. Maybe the same night, maybe not. They were still somewhere on the way to Old Corel, the coach pulled to the side of the road. Nanaki was nowhere in sight and neither was Elena, but Lazard had just risen to his feet by the coach, already recovering from his surprise. And Aeris was…still there. She’d thrown off her outer coat, but had put on all her priestess jewelry. Gold bracelets studded with softly glowing white opals, and a large white stone—a pearl, Tifa thought at first, before realizing it was missing the right sheen—hanging from a golden coil around her throat.

“Please sit down,” Aeris was saying, her arm still out. She rose awkwardly off her knees and edged towards Tifa. “Please. I did the best I could, but you’d lost so much blood…”

Tifa looked down at her arm, which was swathed in bandages from thumb to elbow. And then she remembered and she sat numbly. Cloud was—something had happened. She hadn’t reached him, and he had…gone.

“Tifa?” Aeris touched her shin. “Tifa, I saw…I saw him. You were calling him, and for a moment I _saw_ him.”

“She saw Elena as well,” Lazard said. He came a little closer, but stayed well out of reach of Aeris, who’d stiffened at his voice. “Elena was—she was upset. Her fangs came out.”

After a moment, Aeris took away her hand. She pulled herself up beside Tifa, picking nervously at her skirt. “You were bleeding so much,” she said. “You were going to die if I didn’t heal you.”

“If I had, maybe that would have been enough to call him back,” Tifa muttered. Her hair slid into her face. Someone had pulled out her ponytail, leaving the strands loose, and they were lank and clingy with dried sweat. She scraped them away and over her shoulder. “Damn it. _Damn_ it. I never should have left.”

“They told me there’s an elder demon named Jenova, and she’s the one who’s been hurting your friends,” Aeris said. She took a deep breath. “I’ve heard of her. I mean, I’ve heard legends about her. She’s very—she eats children. Her own children, even.”

Tifa wanted her to go away. She wanted to have never come on this damn trip. She should’ve dragged Cloud out of Hollander’s tower before they’d ever unearthed the three men, and gotten into this whole mess. They had been—they had had something that had _worked_ before that. “Cloud’s a demon. My friend, the one I hunt with—I’m _his_ priestess. Was his priestess. He was trying—we were trying to keep him on the mortal side. But he’s gone.”

“He’s not.” When Tifa looked at her, Aeris pinked in the cheeks but met Tifa’s gaze without flinching. “I saw him. He wasn’t—wasn’t _right_ , but he’s still in this world. So you’re still his priestess, and all we have to do is go get him.”

Hope was the worst pain. It started in Tifa’s chest and then flared out, making her jaw ache where it clenched and sending fresh stabs of agony through her wrist. “How would you know? I can’t _feel_ him.”

“I just—I just do, I don’t know how.” Aeris shivered, then abruptly put her hand on Tifa’s arm. “But what I do know is that you’re still a priestess. I can feel you calling for him right now, and you wouldn’t be able to do that anymore if he was gone. You might not be able to hear him, but he’s there. And—”

“Oh, _stop_ ,” Tifa snarled, flinging her off. Then she got to her feet. She went off a few paces, then stopped.

She _was_ trying to reach for Cloud. She was trying, and it kept going out and out and touching nothing. It just bled away, like water sinking into the earth. But…she could still reach. She still…she looked up at the sky, then pressed her hands over her face. She didn’t know.

She wasn’t a priestess, not really. She and Cloud had stumbled into something, when he’d erupted back into the village and had killed everyone except her, and they had just worked with it the best they could. But she hadn’t been trained or inducted or anything like that. She had just asked him, and he had let her, and then they’d learned as they needed to. But real priestesses served their gods, worshipped them. Real ones believed in them.

Did she believe in Cloud? Or had she just been afraid for him, afraid _of_ him? Always watching for him, waiting, hoping this day wouldn’t come but knowing all her prayers would be useless, at the end.

“We can find him.” Two small hands touched Tifa’s back. “Tifa, please. I know you’re upset, but there’s still time.”

“He’s a demon now. I’m not much better,” Tifa finally said. “And Lazard and Elena, they serve an elder. Even the man we wanted you to help, he’s bound to this Jenova, and probably to Cloud now. You’re just helping a bunch of demons.”

The hands on Tifa’s back curled a little. Then they spread out, pushing against Tifa as if they thought it would close over all the wounds. “I know. And I’m…I’m not…”

“You know, we’ve killed a lot of people.” Tifa wrapped her arms around herself. Her wrist ached, and she thought it might have started to bleed again. “A lot.”

“I’m not a fool,” Aeris said, strongly enough to make Tifa shut her mouth. “I know you think I am one, because I was so excited to leave the Temple that I didn’t think about who you were. And maybe I’m a little silly, and stupid, and careless for not seeing it sooner, but—you asked for help, Tifa. And this is my duty as a priestess of the Ancients. We _help_.”

“You help demons,” Tifa said, looking over her shoulder.

Aeris lifted her chin. “I’m helping _you_ ,” she said. “I heard you crying. That was you, wasn’t it? The little girl in the snow. And no one came then, but I’m here now, and I want to help. I can help. What else you’ve done—well, I don’t know about that. I don’t—I don’t like people being hurt, or anything being hurt, really. But you need to be a priestess now, and I’m here to help you do that.”

She was certain about every word she said, and it wasn’t arrogance or ignorance or anything like that. She just looked like she believed. 

Tifa reached out again, and it petered out without a response. But she was reaching.

Belief or no belief, she thought, she needed to _know_. She slowly turned until she was facing the other woman. “I’m not going to stop fighting,” she said slowly. “If you get in my way…”

“I don’t want you to stop fighting,” Aeris said, breaking out into a relieved, beautiful smile. She pulled at Tifa’s shoulders, then hooked her hand around Tifa’s elbow and tugged her towards the coach. “Come on, get back inside. Lazard, call back Elena and Nanaki! We need to get to Old Corel!”

* * *

By the time Sephiroth, Genesis and Zack had emerged from the tunnels outside the city, the night sky was unnaturally lit with greens and yellows from spell-casting. Sephiroth could sense Genesis tense and poised beside him, ready to go back the moment he was given a reason.

Instead Sephiroth turned away. They had to keep on foot for the rest of the night to evade discovery, even with Zack’s help: he knew that the detachments of soldiers were stationed along the road between Old Corel and Midgar, but confessed he had no knowledge of patrol times or exact numbers.

“Don’t rank high enough, even though I should be commander by now,” he said. Without resentment, merely observing. “I’ve got the ability, and I’m one of the oldest left in the army—they discharged over half the men right after you all disappeared, and then rotated out the rest. But I’m pretty sure they don’t like how I keep asking questions about what’s going on with the priests. I think the only reason _I_ haven’t been discharged is because they want me where they can see me.”

“You said you weren’t affected by them,” Genesis whispered. It was the first he’d spoken since leaving the city.

Zack shrugged, but his voice dropped and he looked around uneasily. “Not exactly. They have this…stare. I’ve seen it do some funny things to people. It’s like they’re making you into a puppet. It doesn’t do that to me, but it does make me ill. Every time I go into a Shinra temple, I spend the next couple of days puking up everything and its mother. But that’s how I ended up following Seph here—I couldn’t take being near the litter anymore so I slipped off to heave up dinner, and ta-da!”

“Quiet,” Sephiroth hissed, listening intently. A large group was approaching from their left. If they kept their current position and made no noises, it would pass them with twenty yards to spare. Close, but there was no better cover within easy reach.

“Seph? You see something?” Zack whispered.

There was no point in answering. Sephiroth crouched low behind the bushes and willed the other two to follow his example, which they eventually did. The patrol soon emerged and passed them without incident.

After that, they began searching for a quicker method of transport. Continuing on foot would mean they would need at least three, possibly four days of hard travel to reach Midgar, and that was far too long. Their enemies clearly were aware of their existence, so the only advantage they had was speed.

Fair found them a covered wagon, and put his talkativeness to use as a cloth merchant heading for the capital. He’d wanted to talk endlessly about what had happened to them, what they’d done since, what they’d done _before_ —he was useful. And he had been Angeal’s parting shot, and Sephiroth had never before let Angeal get away without a response. But still…

“Eventually, we should become accustomed to it,” Genesis muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “By the end of the Wutai war, I was able to sleep even through those damnable war chants.”

The sides of the wagon were less than two feet high, the canvas cover stretched flat and taut across them. Between that and the bolts of cloth shoved in around them, there was little room for two tall men, even lying flat on their backs and unarmed. They’d had to disguise their swords and strap them to the bottom of the wagon, which only heightened their discomfort, and Zack’s constant chatter was misery on misery.

“I don’t even know _who_ he’s speaking to,” Genesis added. “I don’t hear anyone else. Do you?”

“The chocobos,” Sephiroth said. He discreetly flexed his leg in an attempt to work out a cramp.

Genesis stared at the canvas above them, then snorted. “Like calls to like. Well, since we’re unable to rest…”

“We’ll have to use his immunity to Jenova,” Sephiroth said. “We can’t meet her in direct confrontation.”

“I suspect she’ll force that issue,” Genesis said dryly. He eased his arm up and scratched his nose, then winced as he bumped the cover while moving his arm back. “I did find some references to her in the library, and they correlate with what Strife told us. She was known for putting her offspring in mortals—a bit like that wasp that lays its eggs in a spider—and then eating them when they were grown. A way to grow and concentrate her power.”

Sephiroth watched the stretch and slack of the canvas above him. It was strange, he thought. He’d wanted so desperately to have a mother, a father—some origin besides Hojo and his constant probing, his spells, his damnable tests. A glorious, unique creation, that would eventually set him free and give him all the power in the world to never be caught again.

Jenova had that kind of power. She’d offered to share it with him, he half-remembered. And perhaps she had been truthful, in her way. But it was her way, only her way.

Cloud had more freedom. He still had his obligations to his mysterious father, but he could choose— _had_ chosen—to refuse the machinations of others, to rely on his own power. He and Chaos had clashed again, of that Sephiroth was almost certain, but the fact that he hadn’t returned and simply swept away their consciousness said a great deal.

His father. “I thought you were looking into Cloud’s parentage,” Sephiroth said.

“I was, but when I turned up the books on Jenova, they seemed just as relevant.” Genesis turned his head, then, with much wriggling and bumping of knees and arms, turned the rest of his body. His chin fell on Sephiroth’s shoulder. “I have difficulty believing that Strife is dead.”

“There are worse things than death,” Sephiroth said.

“I miss Angeal’s ability to shut up your brooding,” Genesis muttered. He breathed too shallowly, then shifted his head so his chin left Sephiroth’s shoulder. “Damn him. Listen. Jenova is a demon, if nothing else. And we’re still bound to some degree.”

He tapped the band around Sephiroth’s neck and the remaining magic in it flickered, so that the sensation of a thin net, full of gaping holes but still intact, briefly passed over Sephiroth. “However trustworthy he is, I don’t care to rely on Fair to kill both of us even if we are under binding spells. You can’t defeat me, and I don’t know that you can contain all of her for long enough,” Sephiroth said. He frowned at Genesis’ start. “I did consider the merits of Chaos’ plan, even if his choice of a vessel is untenable.”

“Why do you doubt me?” Genesis said after a moment. He was less offended than Sephiroth would have expected.

“You and Angeal both began to degenerate. That speaks to some kind of incompatibility, and from what I remember, Jenova will accept nothing less than perfection.” Sephiroth felt Genesis move again and pressed his arm over the other man. “And I refuse to be the only survivor.”

Genesis went still. Then he snorted. His face pressed into Sephiroth’s shoulder, and then his breath was warm against Sephiroth’s ear. “You are _charming_ , you know. And you wonder why I still try to kill you.”

“You’re right to focus on her demonhood,” Sephiroth said. “She was trapped once. She can be trapped again. If Hojo freed her, then he can put her back. And I know we can defeat him. He might have stolen more power, but he’s still mortal.”

“And then we kill him,” Genesis said.

“Yes,” Sephiroth agreed.

* * *

They drove the coach through the rest of the night. Just before dawn, they began to run into Shinra patrols, which sent Elena and Nanaki into the coach with Lazard. Tifa stayed on the roof to tend to the illusion spells and Aeris helped. Aeris, as it turned out, was brilliant at illusion spells.

“From sneaking out of the Temple so much,” she said. She sat ramrod straight and didn’t look away from the road, but she was blushing again. “I’m really not the best priestess. The times I’ve been scolded…”

“I’m not much of a mage, outside of what I do for Cloud,” Tifa finally said. “I’m glad you can do this.”

Aeris smiled. Then it disappeared and she hastily tightened the spellwork as yet another patrol came towards him. She bit her lip, looking at the Shinra banner fluttering above the soldiers. “There are so many.”

There hadn’t been any when Cloud and Tifa had first come. However Vincent managed it, he had kept the Shinra military presence in the area to a minimum, and now, by Tifa’s count, there was half a regiment roaming the countryside. She hadn’t spoken with Elena or Lazard about it, but she’d read all she had needed to from the fear in Elena’s eyes, just before the other woman had vanished into the coach.

“When I say, you get down and you don’t look,” Tifa finally told Aeris.

Having two attractive women went a long way to getting them by the patrols with minimum questions asked, but it still slowed them. By the time they glimpsed the walls of Old Corel, it was well into the afternoon. Aeris was drooping against Tifa, doggedly holding on against exhaustion, but she gasped when she saw the smoke curling up above the city.

Tifa pressed her lips together. Then she thumped twice on the roof. She waited till she heard an answering rap, then quickly turned the coach towards the east side of the city.

Criminals and heretics and other undesirables were all dealt with outside, on the east, so the cleansing sunrise would reach the polluted land first. The methods varied from place to place: Old Corel traditionally used abandoned minepits, but Shinra preferred fire. And long rituals, and showy displays to impress the people. It made it easy to find them.

Plenty of curious faces were lining the city walls, but the people surrounding the woodpile were all soldiers, and the moment the coach rattled around the corner, a detachment of them separated and moved forward to confront them. Tifa pulled the coach to a stop, then grabbed Aeris by the wrist and yanked her towards the edge of the roof.

While they dropped over one side, the panel on the far side burst open, accompanied by a fierce roaring and gunshots. “Stay here,” Tifa said, pressing on Aeris’ shoulder. “Don’t look.”

Then Tifa darted around the end of the coach. She could see one group of soldiers held down by a snarling flash of red—Nanaki—while another group was busy shooting each other, a blonde head in the middle of it. Elena, ducking and dodging and probably ripping out throats. Another flash of yellow caught her eye and she saw Lazard making for the woodpile. They’d built a staircase and a little platform on one side of it for the priest to stand on, and as she watched, the priest crumpled, a splotch of red on his robes.

Lazard took two steps up the stairs, then stopped as someone rose up from behind the priest— _Hewley_. Even from this distance, the man didn’t look right: so white his face seemed to be shining, with eyes glowing fit to beat Cloud’s. And he had his sword, and he was holding it like he meant to swing it at Lazard. He hadn’t even been able to lift it off the ground, the last time Tifa had seen him.

“Shit,” she said, starting to run over. “Shit, shit, Lazard! Lazard! He’s possessed!”

Hewley leaped at Lazard, who barely avoided it. Tifa ducked a sword, stepped up onto the soldier’s bent knee and kneed him in the face, then punched another as she leaped over the first. Then she grabbed a third by the wrist, twisted it until she heard a _crack_ , and yanked the sword out of the man’s hand. She threw it at Hewley.

She wasn’t expecting it to hit, just to buy some time. And it did—he easily dodged it, but then staggered, his sword dipping. Lazard smartly threw himself past the man and up the stairs, using his hands as well as his feet.

Hewley turned impossibly fast. His sword sliced into Lazard’s leg.

Tifa was at the bottom of the stairs by then, scrabbling at her gauntlet. A gem finally came loose and she poured magic into it, then tossed it at Hewley. He whirled again, and before the gremlin in the summons had half-emerged, it was dead, black blood spilling over Tifa’s feet. Tifa looked up into Hewley’s blank, glowing eyes, like Sephiroth, like _Cloud_ , saw the blade over her head, and dropped to her knees. 

She didn’t know why. She didn’t have time to think about it. She just spread her hands and prayed, and the sword arrested in mid-swing. Something feeble tugged between them.

It felt like Cloud. Like an echo of a shadow of a ghost, as close to not-there as possible and yet unmistakable. Tifa faltered in shock, and the green in Hewley’s eyes brightened. He trembled, his sword bobbing and swaying over her.

“No!” someone shouted behind her.

And suddenly power was streaming through her, cool and soothing, like nothing she’d ever felt before. Demons were always burning and prickly, like a rope of heated thorns. Even Cloud was like a scorching wind that just blew right through her. But this—this was.

This was golden bracelets digging into her bandaged wrist, and a soft pebbly warmth pressing into her back, and a sweet voice chanting with her. Aeris curled up behind her, holding her up, and together they called down the rain.

Hewley shuddered, then cried out, his head snapping into his chest. His sword slid sideways, then back, and then came crookedly down.

Tifa grabbed behind her and then yanked herself and Aeris over, the sword slicing straight through two steps before burying itself in the ground right by her. It cut a thin layer off her knee, not even thick enough to break the skin, just enough to scrape the nerves. Aeris gasped but Tifa kept praying, and after a moment she felt Aeris’ hands on her waist, and heard Aeris’ voice slip back in tune with hers. 

She rolled them over, still praying, and then grabbed the edge of the staircase and used it to haul them up. Crouched on the new last step, Hewley was holding his head in his hands, his hair already slick with rain. The water welled up under his fingers and ran down his arm and neck, and Tifa could see the dark marks retreating under his shirt. His collar was gone.

Something exploded close enough to deafen her. The rain turned warm. She twisted around, her chants moaning and distorted in her ears, and saw Elena stumbling up to them, gun in hand, blood on her right leg and left arm. There was a dead soldier at Tifa’s feet, and Aeris was white-faced and shaking against her. A hand gripped at hers, missing her arm twice before she got it and pulled it down; Aeris pressed her face against Tifa’s neck, her mouth shivering around each word.

“Tifa.” Hewley. He was slumped against the woodpile, blinking dazedly at her. “You’re…when…”

“Down!” Elena hissed. She slammed against the stairs next to Tifa, her back to the wood, gun drawn and aimed at the oncoming soldiers.

Hewley did not get down. His eyes narrowed, and then, in one fluid motion, he rose, pulled his sword free, and jumped over Elena.

At the same time, Elena snapped down her gun and pivoted around. She grabbed the edge of the stairs as if to pull herself up them, but then collapsed, panting. Tifa pushed her up, then eased free of Aeris. The other woman lifted her head, eyes begging—then saw Elena and her injuries. She reached for her and Tifa climbed up the stairs to the top of the woodpile.

Lazard had left a bloody trail as wide as him, but he had reached the dead priest and was pulling at the man’s robes. Then he jerked his hand back, his eyes wide.

“Hurry up!” shouted Reno. He, Rufus and the rest of the Turks were sprawled out atop the woodpile, chained to posts that drove up at regular intervals.

The rain was drying up; Tifa had stopped chanting, out of breath, and she didn’t know if Aeris was continuing. The moment it stopped, a simple fire spell would set the pile ablaze. Tifa dropped down by Lazard and peered at the priest’s body.

There was no body. The robes were filled with a stinking, putrid mass that was green bleeding to black. Demonic possession. Grimacing, Tifa dropped the robe and then wiped her hand against the platform, even though she hadn’t touched the stuff. She looked at Lazard and he shook his head; he hadn’t gotten any on him either. “But the binding spells,” Lazard said. “I can’t find the gem for them.”

Tifa looked at the robe. She took off her gauntlet, turned it metal side down, and then beat around the robe until she heard something clink. Lazard instantly pulled at the robe, his hand wrapped in a rag, and drew out a long silver chain. He laid it flat on the platform and then Tifa smashed the jewels on the chain with her gauntlet, muttering spells under her breath. Thankfully, the priest hadn’t used anything beyond her capability to handle.

But she was tired. When Tseng gave a hoarse shout, she dropped the gauntlet and then nearly fell onto Lazard. She just caught herself on her hands.

Just as well, since he fell into a motionless heap a second later. She stared at him. The slash in his trousers showed unbroken skin—healed by the rain, but not before he’d lost a good deal of blood. 

Someone shouldered by her, then seized Lazard by the shoulders and hauled him up. His head lolled until Rufus, swearing, grabbed it by the hair and pushed it against his throat. Then he dragged it off, letting it hang from his hand as he bit his free wrist, then pressed it to Lazard’s gaping mouth.

“Damn it,” he was saying, over and over. “Damn it, drink, _damn you_ , I _refuse_ to let you.”

“Rufus,” Elena said from the stairs. “Rufus.”

“We have them.” Tseng limped up behind Rufus. He was looking at the city walls. “We go, now.”

Tifa looked around them. Most of the soldiers were dead, and those who weren’t were fleeing for the city gates. Hewley was leaning against his sword in the midst of the bodies; even if the taint of Jenova was gone from him, he didn’t look fully healthy. The coach was rolling towards him, followed by Nanaki.

“I’m sorry.” Aeris looked up at the platform. She was pale, her braid half-undone, her jewels dull. There was a cut on her arm that Tifa hadn’t noticed before, scabbed over but still fresh. “I can’t—I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m too tired. I can’t heal the rest.”

They could fit six in the coach, eight if everyone sat up. More could sit on the roof, but then it would go no faster than a crawl, and there were the patrols still roaming around. Tifa worked over to the edge of the stairs, then swung over. She nearly fell on her face when she landed, she was so weak. 

Hewley saw her and came over, and from the way he was moving, he wasn’t much better off. Even if he could carry that giant sword now. “Genesis and Sephiroth took off for Midgar, to try and stop Jenova and Hojo,” he said. “Cloud went out with Valentine a night ago, and—”

“Something happened. I know.” Tifa touched her wrist and found the bandage soaked through, though when she unraveled the cloth, her skin was smooth. “We need to find Cloud.”

“How?” he asked.

She paused. “You have—had some of him in you,” she said slowly. “I could call it, and…if it’s still there, after the rain…I can try to call it again, and call him through you.”

He looked at her, his face unreadable, and she remembered the way his voice had twisted, calling himself a monster. Then he nodded. “It’s still there,” he said curtly. “Once we’re clear, you can try.”

“There are soldiers,” Elena said. She swayed in place. “We need more than just the coach. We can’t go fast enough.”

“Get in there for now,” Hewley said. “I’ll walk until we find something else. I’ve been lying around long enough.”

Elena frowned, but Tseng was already telling people who would go inside and who would be on the roof and who would walk. “I can walk,” Aeris said.

Shaking her head, Tifa grabbed the other woman’s arm. She started to pull them towards the coach. “No, you ride inside.”

“I _saw_ ,” Aeris said, though she let Tifa take her along. “I know, Tifa. And I don’t like it, I don’t—but that thing inside of him, what we pushed out, she’s so…hungry. She wants to eat the world. We have to stop her, and—”

“You have to rest,” Tifa said firmly. “You don’t need to walk and kill.”

Aeris breathed in sharply, but then tugged Tifa around to look at her. “But I’ll help. I’ll _help_. If—there’s no other way. If it keeps you safe.”

She touched Tifa’s cheek. She had rough fingertips, Tifa thought in surprise, and then she saw the other woman’s slight wince. Tifa pulled down Aeris’ hand and looked at the raw scrapes, then at Aeris.

“You’re better at illusions,” Tifa said. “Please ride.”

“On the roof,” Aeris said after a moment. “I want to see you.”

“All right. All right.” Then Tifa turned away.

She still had Aeris’ wrist, and used it to draw the other woman alongside the coach. It was just about all she could do to push Aeris up to the roof, and then she had to rest against the wheel for a moment, catching her breath.

Rough fingers touched the side of her face, and a cool flutter of healing magic went through her. She looked up and Aeris smiled conspiratorially over her trembling hand. “That really is it,” she told Tifa. “So don’t get hurt, all right?”

Tifa finally smiled. “All right.”

* * *

They abandoned the wagon once they came across a nest of _fenghuang_ and Sephiroth discovered that his magic was sufficiently unrestricted to master the birds. The _fenghuang_ could have taken them directly into the heart of Midgar in a single night, but they would have arrived too exhausted to be effective. They needed to feed. 

Summons, broken or not, wouldn’t be readily available outside of the Shinra temple or palace. Genesis was convinced that Sephiroth’s experience with the dead riders was due more to Chaos than to the actual drinking of souls, but Sephiroth wasn’t willing to risk that, not so close to their goal. So that left the time Cloud had assisted Angeal in absorbing warding magic. Neither Sephiroth nor Genesis had never seen anything quite like that; feeding off an empty summons was new as well, but appeared to follow roughly the same mechanics as calling a summons entity to appear. With direct absorption of spells, they knew only that they needed a source of spellwork. Blood-based, if they were to stay as close to Cloud’s example as possible.

“Are you sure?” Fair said, ducking under the lintel. He raised his hand and the white orb floating above it expanded till it threw light across the small, dilapidated room. “You know, there’s all sorts of scary stories about this place. I heard that if you come right at midnight, you can still hear the gurgle as they cut the throats.”

Although Shinra had been largely successful in crushing worship of local gods, even at Midgar they’d been forced to leave some of the old temples undestroyed. Any sign of restored use punishable by death, but the temples still stood on the outskirts of town. The one they were currently in had suffered some damage: the roof had caved in at one corner, and the stone walls were slowly sinking into the ground at a tilt, but the altar was intact.

It was a simple stone block, with a runnel carved into one edge to carry away fluids. Sephiroth could still smell chocobo and watersheep and various small fowl. No human blood, although there was a palpable wash of fear and sweat. Not a kind god, it seemed; following Sephiroth’s train of thought, Genesis pointed out a carving behind the altar that showed something with wings like a hawk’s tearing into a prone body.

“All right, well…I’ll be outside. Call if you see a ghost, or get propositioned by a god, or something,” Fair said. His boots scraped against the threshold, and then he began to whistle a vulgar marching song.

Genesis glanced at Sephiroth, then stripped off his gloves and strode up to the altar. He put his hands down on the top, only to immediately snatch them back, a revolted, confused look on his face. “I do believe it knows why we’re here.”

“Does it?” Sephiroth said. He stepped up to the other side of the altar and touched the stone with his fingertips.

It _crawled_. The stone was warm and it seemed to sink under his fingers, then press back, as if something was stirring. He lifted his hands as quickly as Genesis had.

“We eat,” Genesis said, voice tight. He stared down at the plain grey stone. “We eat, and then we go to the palace, and kindly ask where Hojo has been keeping himself these days? Tuesti’s survival does make a strong case for his possession, you realize.”

“Do you have a suggestion, or merely criticism?” Sephiroth muttered. Whatever god, demon, or other being had once ruled here, their power had been broken, he told himself. Shinra’s priests would not have allowed a rival to survive this close to Midgar, even if they had had to placate the sensibilities of the locals.

Genesis chewed his lip. “I don’t care to add any more claims to my account,” he finally said. “My current creditors are taxing enough.”

But his hands were already flattening against the stone. His mouth twisted in disgust and he rotated his wrists without lifting his hands, as if trying to adjust to an unpleasant texture. Then his brows rose.

“Something’s missing.” He flexed his fingers. “I can feel it, I can almost taste it, but there’s a barrier in between.”

“Try calling it like a summons,” Sephiroth said.

“ _You_ call it,” Genesis retorted. “It isn’t rising for me.”

Sephiroth bit back a sigh and put his hands on the altar. He felt the sinuous turn of the stone under his fingers and forced himself to press down more firmly, but still, that sense of a skin between him and the power within remained. It responded to the pull of his own magic and the skin stretched yearningly into his palms, but remained unbreached.

They didn’t have the time—he drew back his hand, ready to simply try brute force, and stared as a long rope of magic came away from the altar. It was as thick as two fingers together and a glossless ruddy brown, like dried blood, and as it hung from his hand, a strange, slow flex traveled up its length.

Genesis lifted his hand and a similar rope rose under it. He shook it a little and it shivered but clung to him. “Well.” His brows twitched. “Well, damn it, are we not monsters?”

Then he twisted his head sideways and bit into the rope.

Heat stabbed into Sephiroth’s palm, then sluiced down his arm and into his head. He found himself on his knees, cheek rubbing the altar, his hands sinking rapidly into the stone as if it had turned to water. Some thick, sticky fluid seeped into his nostrils and he gasped, then gagged as it poured down his mouth instead. He smelled smoke, felt the heat of the fire prickling his skin, heard the ceaseless rise and fall of chanting voices. He was above them, drawing from them, those upturned backs and lowered heads. They prayed to him, begged him, and their worship was sweet. Did Cloud ever feel this, when his priestess prayed to him?

It was a stray, barely formed thought. But out of it unfurled an insidious, gnawing emptiness. They prayed to him, he filled with their prayers, but—but it was beginning to drain away, that swell of power. He gobbled up more prayers, desperate, but only felt the yawning hole grow. Something—something—eating _him_. Crumbling him away, and soon he would be nothing, would be—did Cloud—Cloud—

Like a blade in between, a length of hard, immovable steel against the fury and roar of the hunger on the other side.

Chilly, cracked stone under his hands. Pain in his head, but already receding. His mouth was full of bitter and heat, and beside him, the altar was dull and lifeless. He lifted his head and something red moved painfully into view.

“Here,” Genesis said raggedly. “He’s here.”

* * *

The soldiers blurred together after a while. Tifa fought, rode, fought. She had to scrape the blood off her gauntlets with someone’s dagger, and then drag corpses out of the coach. At least the Turks were feeding well. It wasn’t long before most of them were out and hunting up alternative transport. Reno even found a couple of minor summons, weak enough for Tifa to break on her own.

They made camp in a hollow between two hills. Valentine’s house had been destroyed, so Chaos’ order to stay was no longer effective and Rufus and the Turks all wanted to head for North Corel. But the patrols had been too thick and they’d been forced to swing gradually towards Midgar. Tifa hadn’t minded that so much. Whatever Chaos had been doing with Cloud, he couldn’t have intended for the Shinra to attack his base while they were gone, and since he hadn’t returned, he had to have run up against something more powerful than him. There weren’t many candidates for that and the most obvious one was Jenova.

She would’ve thought Angeal would want to head straight after his friends, but he’d not said a word about it. Instead he’d protected the coach until he was nearly on his knees, then had remained silent while Tifa had argued for a brief stop. They couldn’t afford more than a few hours’ rest, not with so many soldiers still roaming around, but they couldn’t just fight in circles around Old Corel. And eventually, Rufus had emerged from the coach and had curtly agreed.

Tifa had almost asked after Lazard, but then had caught sight of Aeris. True to her word, the other woman had been on the roof the entire time, and she was still there, even though a few yards away, Cissnei and Tseng were trying to throw together a small meal for those who couldn’t just slurp down blood. She had to be starving.

She jumped when Tifa pulled herself up the side of the coach, then scrambled over so quickly that they nearly fell. As it was, Tifa barely managed to keep their feet pointed at the ground, and stumbled upon landing so that they crashed against the coach. She grabbed at Aeris, then stilled as Aeris buried her head in Tifa’s neck, her fingers twisted in Tifa’s coat.

Cissnei looked up, then began to rise, only to have Tseng stop her. She frowned, but settled back, gesturing to Tifa that the tea was almost ready.

“Aeris?” Tifa steadied herself, then lifted her hand and gently touched the other woman’s shoulder. Then she brushed the backs of her fingers against Aeris’ neck.

It felt clammy, though Aeris’ forehead was burning a hole in Tifa’s skin. If she was sick, Tifa thought, heart sinking…Tifa worked her hands around either side of Aeris’ face and tugged it back so she could see it.

“Sorry,” Aeris said softly. She was bone white, her eyes clear from fever but haunted. Her fingers slowly uncurled, then rubbed uncertainly against Tifa’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I just…” she laughed weakly “…never saw that before. I’m so stupid.”

“No.” Tifa cupped her hand around the back of Aeris’ head. She pulled, and after a moment’s resistance, Aeris let Tifa guide her head back to Tifa’s shoulder. “No.”

Aeris took one normal breath, then one deep, shuddering breath. Then she didn’t breathe, for so long that Tifa was about to pull her up when the other woman spoke. “Do you get used to it?” she asked.

She looked a little better when Tifa eased her back. Still pale, but she was frowning at Tifa’s silence. “Eat something,” Tifa said. “Not a lot, just something to tell your stomach it’s not empty. Sometimes I go over my prayers when I’m chewing, so I don’t taste it.”

“Tifa,” Aeris said, cocking her head. She moved her hands up Tifa’s chest and neck till her fingertips just touched the edges of Tifa’s jaw. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not. It’s just how it is.” Tifa pulled away, but Aeris’ hands dropped back to clutch at her coat. “Look, I have to talk to Hewley for a few minutes. I’ll come back for my share after that. We’re not going anywhere—you can watch.”

Aeris still frowned, but she let go of Tifa and went to sit across from Cissnei. Tseng was gone—Tifa heard his voice a moment later, coming from inside the coach. Talking to Rufus about not forcing something.

Angeal was sitting on the other side of the hollow, his sword standing in the ground next to him. He hadn’t cleaned off the blade, though he looked faintly embarrassed when he saw Tifa studying it. Instead he’d pulled up his shirt, taking one arm out of it and hiking it over his shoulder, and had been examining his side. The skin was mostly clear, and what bruises still mottled it looked like bruises, and not like some kind of internal growth.

“You should eat first,” Tifa said. She stiffly got down beside him, setting the cracked summons within his reach.

He raised an eyebrow, then twisted his arm back into his shirt and pulled down the hem. “So should you.”

“I don’t want to argue,” Tifa snapped. “I just want to try this and then get going. I’m the damn priestess, I know this better than you. You need to eat so that afterward, I don’t have to drag you back to the coach. There are still plenty of soldiers out.”

Angeal was silent. Across the hollow, Tseng had come out to sit on the edge of the coach’s open side panel, with his hands gripping either side of the opening so no one could see past him. He looked frustrated, then bemused as Aeris offered him a cup of tea. His mouth moved—explaining that he didn’t eat that way—and the cup bobbed in front of him. After another moment, he took it. He fumbled it a little, uncharacteristically, like he didn’t quite remember the fit of a teacup in his hand, and then he raised the cup to his face and breathed in its steam.

“Are you all right?” Angeal asked. When Tifa looked over, his eyes were resting on her wrist.

It was healed now, but there was scar tissue left. Dull red and swollen enough that Tifa had pulled off the bandage to let it air. The color would get better but it might be permanent at this point. “It’s fine.”

“Mmm.” Angeal’s hand drifted back towards his side. Then he put it down in the grass. “Thank you. And I’d like to thank your friend, too.”

“You can tell her that yourself,” Tifa muttered. She pulled out a spare bandage, then frowned as she spotted the blood soaked into one end. “She did most of it.”

She was about to stretch the stained end over her gauntlet when Angeal put out his hand. Tifa hesitated, then passed over the bandage. After a look over his sword, Angeal found a clean spot on the edge and cut off the bandage’s end. Then he passed it back.

“I felt you in it, too,” he said. He didn’t offer to wrap her arm, or look at her while she was doing it. “You were holding onto the—”

“I don’t know what I was doing. I just didn’t want you to kill me or Aeris.” Tifa yanked the turns of the bandage tight, then winced. Then she sighed and began tugging at their edges, loosening them so they wouldn’t split open the scar tissue. “I don’t know what _she_ did, either, so I don’t know why you’re not back to normal, I don’t know why that didn’t heal either—”

“I’m not an expert, but I don’t think you can heal what you are,” Angeal said. Mild but firm enough to stop her talking over him. And when she looked up, he actually looked calm. It didn’t even look like he was trying to be like that. “I’m grateful to have what’s left of Jenova out of me. I know you could have killed me, instead of going to the extra effort.”

Tifa snorted. It hurt her throat. “Killed you? Cloud’s not here.”

“You’re determined enough, and you’ll do anything for those you care for. And I am aware that I do not number among them. I think you would have found a way,” Angeal said quietly. “So I am thankful to you.”

Something fluttered against Tifa’s wrist, and she looked down to see that the bandage had loosened to the point of unraveling. Irritated, she bent to the task and secured the cloth in a few seconds. She smoothed down a twist in one turn, then cupped her wrist and pulled it against her belly.

“I’m not going to force you to stay. I just need to know where Cloud is, and then you can go after your friends, or wherever you want,” Tifa said. She sensed Angeal’s surprise, but didn’t look up. “He didn’t want you bound to him, and what you have now is just from his powers. I never gave a damn about that.”

“I actually wasn’t suggesting that you were, or that I was unwilling.” Angeal sounded shocked. “I—why would you—”

“You’re still a monster, aren’t you? Just a better one, now.” Tifa hugged her arm closer to her. She should stop, should just forget about it, and forget about the damn summons if Angeal didn’t want them, and get on with finding Cloud. “Aeris is too tired, but if she could kick out Jenova, I’m sure someone at the Temple of the Ancients can figure out the rest. Just—just let me look for Cloud first. Please.”

The way Angeal drew breath right then, Tifa had to look up and check where his sword was. But it was still planted firmly in the ground, and across the way Tseng was watchful but not alarmed. And Aeris was looking at them, too, with a concern that made Tifa drop her eyes again. The woman couldn’t still think it was romantic and exciting, what they were doing; Tifa remembered the way Aeris had clung to her, as if she could burrow into Tifa and shut out the rest of the world. But Aeris still stared at her like that, like she really believed that Tifa could make it better.

“I am sorry, Tifa,” Angeal said. He even offered her a smile, his eyes sad instead of accusing or angry or bitter. “My only excuse is that I was not well, but that’s still a poor reason for hurting you over my own troubles. You’re not a monster, and I’m sorry if I made you feel like that.”

Tifa curled her hands into fists, then made them uncurl. “Don’t be stupid. I never said I—we are, you know. Everything we do, you can’t think it’s suddenly good and right, and don’t just—I don’t _need_ you to make me feel better. It’s not about that. I didn’t want to be like this. But I _am_ , and it lets me help Cloud. And—” she laughed a little, rough and low “—well, I wanted to travel. I wanted to get out of Nibelheim. I wanted to be something besides the mayor’s daughter. I never wanted it like this, but I’m—we were actually happy some of the time, you know, before we found you three. What we had to do for it was bad. But some people only get to be happy that way. That’s what I learned, the night the town came for me.”

Angeal tried to say something. When she kept talking, he reached over and tapped her arm, then pulled at it. But she just—she didn’t have to worry about him anymore, and she’d never wanted to worry about him in the first place. Him or Aeris, or anyone except herself and Cloud. It’d just been so much _easier_ that way.

“So we’re monsters,” Tifa said. “I’m not a good person. I still want to be happy. I still want Cloud to be happy. I don’t give a damn if we deserve it or not.”

“I don’t know if I do either,” Angeal finally said. He looked faintly amused when she jerked around to stare at him. “Don’t misunderstand me, Tifa. I still think that it’s dishonorable to waylay random unfortunates who just happen to be out too late, and for reasons I think are valid. But I have people I want to protect, and I would do anything to succeed at that. If that takes accepting demonic aid, fine. I just object to trading one cruel master for another—my friends deserve better. And you deserve better.”

“Cloud—” Tifa started.

“I meant Jenova, Hojo, Shinra, Chaos…Cloud’s father, any others who think they can simply bind others without consent. Because you _did_ ask Cloud. He gave you a choice. I remember you telling me this.” The corner of Angeal’s mouth twisted up. “You really don’t like me.”

Tifa grimaced. She didn’t, but something about the way he was being about it, like he actually liked her for it, was making her feel like she’d done something wrong. “That doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

“Very well, then why don’t we do something that is relevant?” he said. He reached out for the summons and fingered them, then picked one up. “I’ll save the others for afterward. I need to keep something by for when we need to kill whatever attacked Cloud.”

That, Tifa could live with. She got to her feet and Tseng’s head went up; she gestured that they needed a little longer and he nodded, then started ordering people to break camp. Aeris got up and took a few tentative steps towards them, but halted as Nanaki wandered up. She frowned at Tifa, then seemed to change her mind and knelt back down to pet Nanaki’s mane.

Relieved, Tifa turned around, only to find Angeal still looking at the summons in his hand. She started to ask him what was wrong, then remembered what had happened in the cave. And how Sephiroth had acted, feeding off the dead souls.

Well, they couldn’t really go off and give Angeal any more privacy. Tifa looked around again, sighed as she saw the sparse plant life, and then just turned her back on Angeal and crossed her arms. She felt the tingle of magic, heard a hoarse groan, and edged sideways till she was standing by the man’s sword. That still didn’t hide everything, but she did her best to glare down any curious Turk stares. It helped that Tseng was clearly of the mind that they had better things to do.

As for Tifa, she recited chants silently until she heard Angeal spit out a couple Banoran curses. Then she turned around and knelt down. She pulled out a hunting knife and had the point against the back of her hand when he cleared his throat. “Do you need to do that?” he said. “You can’t just replace the blood like the others.”

“I’m not going to hold back on this,” she muttered. “I barely managed to call you. This is going to take everything I’ve got.”

Then she took a deep breath, and sliced the knife point across her hand. The blood welled up and trickled down between her knuckles, and she let out her breath and prayed.

She felt herself stretching out and almost immediately touched something. Angeal, twining into her, so fast and so much stronger than before—and suddenly she was rising fast and hot, like a meteor streaking across the sky. She burned across the space, chasing the faintest of trails, but she could—could _feel_ him.

He wasn’t in the north, but south, _south_ , and he felt her, he was rising up to meet her and then they were—

Cold and hungry and not Cloud. Not Cloud at all. And Tifa had dived straight into her gaping maw and it was closing around her. She wrenched herself back, hit a wall of freezing _hate_ , and—

—was on the ground, sprawled out with Aeris leaning over her. She tried to lift her head and was too dizzy, and let it fall back.

“What happened?” Tseng was asking. Asking Angeal, who was just sitting up, looking as shaky as Tifa felt. “Did you—”

“Midgar,” Angeal said curtly. “They’re in Midgar.”

“She got him,” Tifa said. “She got Cloud.”

Tseng studied them for a moment, as if—but he just cared where Chaos was. He didn’t have any reason to go after Jenova, or Cloud.

“Midgar,” he said. “All right. We’ll start out now.”

Tifa blinked, then hissed as Aeris tried to pull her up. She shook off the other woman and put her hand to her head. Something touched the back of her hand and she flinched, then held still, feeling the coolness of healing magic sluice over her skin. She’d still been bleeding.

“All right,” she muttered. She lowered her hand, bumped into Aeris’ arm, and then caught that before she really thought about it.

Her head hurt. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to even have to think that she had to think about it, but Aeris touched her hand again. No healing, just a hesitant brush of fingers.

She wanted to be happy, too.

Then Tifa shook herself. No time for that. She had to get up and get moving.

* * *

They had departed the ruined temple as swiftly as possible. Fair had had a torrent of questions—he hadn’t looked, remarkably enough, but had certainly listened—and Sephiroth only managed to shut him up by sending him to find Tuesti and lure him to a meeting, while Sephiroth and Genesis slipped into the city.

Midgar was much the same. Still overcrowded, dirty, its people so absorbed in their own petty lives that they never looked up at the sky. The most noticeable change was the far greater number of soldiers patrolling the streets, many of whom bore the insignia of the Shinra temple, rather than that of the king. But even they rarely raised their heads, preferring instead to harass the commoners and then collect fines. If Sephiroth had still had any attachment to the army, he would have been disgusted at what they had descended to in his absence.

Instead he and Genesis searched for a temporary resting place. Fair had told them to meet him at the old generals’ quarters—never occupied after their disappearance, but instead left vacant and shunned. He’d assured them that neither Hojo nor any of his underlings had been seen around the area, but both Sephiroth and Genesis disliked the idea of sleeping in their former rooms. It felt too close to resuming their old lives.

They also had to avoid the temples and any other place frequented by the priesthood, which ruled out the rest of the army’s quarters. In the end, they settled on an abandoned shrine in one of the poorer areas: it was filthy, its floor covered in human waste and its windows broken, but it had an intact attic. The space was only large enough for them to sit, but Sephiroth didn’t plan to sleep and he suspected Genesis didn’t, either.

During the night they spoke only briefly. “Do you think any differently of Chaos’ proposal?” Genesis asked.

“I won’t kill the man who freed me,” Sephiroth answered.

Genesis was silent. Then he shifted, his hand dropping inside his coat. He pulled it out almost immediately, twisting his head away, and Sephiroth expected another recitation of ‘Loveless’ to replace the lack of the book.

“We’re not free of him,” Genesis eventually said. He ran his fingers down the length of his blade, brushing away nonexistent dust. “Is it freedom, or is it choice?”

“I don’t care.” Sephiroth stared at the jagged slip of sky visible through the nearest window. “I won’t accept that I can only have one or the other. I will have what I want, all of it.”

A faint laugh had drifted through the air, but when Sephiroth looked over, Genesis was somber, the planes of his face perfectly still. He hadn’t said another word until morning.

They were supposed to meet Tuesti slightly after dawn, when most of the army would be at breakfast, and the priests at the first rituals of the day. Fair’s intelligence had largely borne out so far, but nevertheless Sephiroth and Genesis arrived early to ensure that the area was secure.

Their quarters had once been in the heart of the army barracks, and as far away as possible from the temple where Sephiroth had been raised. But in two years the army had been relocated to around the temple, and the old buildings either destroyed or converted to house livestock, much of which appeared to be designated as sacrifices for the temple. Their building squatted in the middle of it all like a misplaced shrine to the past. All perishables had been removed, but in Genesis’ rooms, the floor was still littered with stray pieces of clothing, scrolls, and other objects. In Sephiroth’s, a half-read report lay on his desk, open to the very spot where he’d left off.

“Hey, don’t kill us, we’re here,” called Fair’s voice.

A moment later he slipped into the room, something black and furred balanced on his shoulder. He took it down and cradled it in his arms, and the cat looked up at them with a strangely human smile.

“General! Commander!” the cat said in Reeve’s voice. “I’m so pleased to see that your demises were grossly overstated.”

Genesis smiled as well, far less friendly. “I am in a _highly_ unpleasant mood.”

The cat backpeddled into Fair’s chest, then twisted around and made an attempt for Fair’s shoulder. Rolling his eyes, Fair intercepted the animal and stuffed it under his arm. “Reeve couldn’t just _come_ , all right? The whole palace is locked down, and I just managed to get in because I know a gate guard who knows a maid who’d really _like_ to know…all right, all right. This is Reeve. It’s just him in a poppet. He’s a poppet master. I’m not sure how that’s different from puppets, but—”

“Why is the palace locked down?” Sephiroth asked.

Still squirming, the cat freed its front paws enough to make a placating gesture. Its digits were longer and arranged differently from those of an ordinary feline; it likely could grip and manipulate as well as a person. “Officially, the king is ill. Unofficially, Hojo.”

“He got some visitor from out of town, very hush-hush. The temple’s shut up even tighter than the palace. I tried to find out more information, but I couldn’t get a damn thing,” Fair said. He adjusted the cat under his arm, then peered at Sephiroth. “Seph?”

“Hojo’s in the temple,” Sephiroth said to the cat.

It shook its head. “No, no, Hojo’s in the palace, in the king’s bedroom. He’s been there since the visitor arrived and I have it on good authority that he’ll be there today.”

“If you’re lying, or even just mistaken, Tuesti, you won’t live to regret it,” Genesis said.

“Oh, come on, Gen,” Fair said.

Genesis was already at the door. He huffed when Sephiroth caught his arm, but allowed Sephiroth to pass him. “And I _will_ kill you, Fair, if you continue to be so inappropriately familiar,” he slung over his shoulder. “Return Tuesti’s poppet and then wait for further orders.”

Sephiroth raised a brow.

“I don’t know what Angeal was thinking, but he wanted us to take the boy along,” Genesis muttered. “He’d be—I doubt he intended for us to throw him onto Hojo’s tender graces.”

“Hojo’s mine,” Sephiroth said. “But I will allow you the king, in Angeal’s name.”

“How gracious,” Genesis sneered. “Only if you’re there to allow it in the first place, Sephiroth.”

As Fair had reported, the palace was heavily guarded, even the rooftops. They wasted nearly an hour searching for an unguarded entry point before giving in to the inevitable.

The king’s private chambers were in the center of the palace, housed in a tower that loomed over the rest of the city. Genesis set fires at the main gates and two others, and when much of the palace staff had rushed out, he took to the roofs over their heads.

Sephiroth was already at the base of the tower, dispatching the last of its external guards. Then he was climbing the tower, Genesis’ outraged demands for him to wait streaming up from below. He made the top in less than a minute, killed the griffins chained there, and descended into the king’s bedroom.

Its sole occupants were a flabby, weakly moaning form on the bed, and Hojo, standing beside the bed. Hojo hadn’t changed at all: rich robes hanging awkwardly off a spindly, twisted body, sallow skin, black eyes narrow with cold, detached speculation. “Sephiroth,” he said. “Disappointing. I expected you a full day before this.”

Even as he swung Masamune at Hojo’s neck, he was aware that his anger had blinded him. He couldn’t kill the man They needed him to—to—expecting him. Hojo?

Masamune jerked, then buried itself in the mattress. Sephiroth stared at the blade, then his hand on the hilt. Then he snapped his head up to look at Hojo.

Except it wasn’t Hojo. The body was the same, thin grasping hands reaching out as it came towards him, the same hands he’d suffered all his life, prodding, pressing, twisting. But the face was his again. And then—different. Hers.

She smiled up at him, her eyes endlessly green. She promised him no pain, no want, only paradise. If he only…

Sephiroth swayed. He felt thick, muddled, as if he was pushing through an ocean of syrup, but something—wouldn’t give. It stuck in place, no matter how the ocean swirled and pushed against it, trying to overcome it, erode it, shift it. It stayed where it was and when he went up against it, it held him still. He…he jerked, then again. Then he slashed out, twisting himself away from her.

His throat and wrists burned. He struggled for a moment against the pain, then fell to one knee. Masamune wrenched in his spasming fingers and he looked up to see the end of it buried in the bed, in the rotting corpse now there. Then he didn’t have Masamune anymore, and his head was pressed to the floor, and the pain, incredibly, was _worse_.

“Well, that is impressive, if futile,” Hojo said above him. That damnable smile, thin and condescending. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Sephiroth. You never had any respect for the priesthood, but it does give one certain…advantages in discussing matters with one’s true peers. Jenova understands that I need to retain some separation of self in order to best serve her and her chosen heir.”

Then he reached down and the world swam away.

* * *

He remembered his mother reading to him. Some fairytale about a princess, and a dark lord who fell in love with her from afar. He stole her away to the underworld and she ate of the food of the dead, and forever after she was a part of him.

His father reading to him. An explanation. The mating of human and demon was unpredictable— _people_ were unpredictable, bound by nothing more than their own foolishness, and sometimes, by will or accident or simply chance, they could transcend their native flesh.

He remembered.

* * *

Sephiroth woke on smooth, seamless stone, to the sound of someone’s harsh, quick breathing. He recognized them, and turned his head away.

“No less grateful,” Hojo tsked. He strode around them, his robes hissing against the stone like a serpent. “I thought a few years with that incompetent Hollander might teach you a little humility, but you were always a recalcitrant child.”

He was standing over Genesis when Sephiroth looked up, holding a lighted taper in one hand and a smoking chunk of incense over the other. Hojo said something in a tongue that was familiar yet unintelligible to Sephiroth, then shook the incense over Genesis’ back. Bits of it fell onto the raw, sluggishly bleeding welts that criss-crossed Genesis’ skin, drawing a snarl of pain from him.

The leather bands were gone from Genesis’ wrists and neck. Instead, thin chains of iron and moonstones were wound around Genesis’ arms and legs, holding him on his stomach against the floor. Sephiroth was likewise bound, and could feel cuts on his back and palms, the lips of the tears parting to let fresh blood run down his body when he moved.

“So much _work_ into you. I nearly wasted a life, trying to make you perfect, and in the end you were good for nothing but fuel,” Hojo went on. He studied Genesis’ writhing, then stepped back and walked around him, towards the end of the room. “And a common little strumpet in the mountains managed to create a flawless vessel, purely by accident. It’s maddening. I could kill you simply for that.”

There was a raised dais, with a dark hump on it, roughly the size of a person. It was covered in some kind of leather drape. Before the dais was set various chalices and platters, some filled with a red, viscous liquid. Hojo dropped the chunk of incense onto an empty platter and then knelt down, fastidiously rearranging his robes.

He bowed his head, apparently praying, and for a few moments the room was silent. But then Hojo rose. He took a knife out of his robes and cut his palm: his blood was thicker than normal, clinging in long loops to the knife that stretched several inches before breaking, and had streaks of black and green in it. He let the blood drip on the floor behind him as he walked slowly back towards him. “I was hoping that you would be dispatched at Hollander’s tower, in fact. Your use really ended then. But since Hollander was too incompetent to even accomplish that—and how hard is it, really, to make you an appealing meal? you’re attractive enough—I’ll have to put up with you till she fully awakens in him.” 

Then Hojo flicked his hand out, sending thin strings of his blood flying through the air. Sephiroth jerked back, but the chains held him. He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth as tightly shut as he could, while wet splatters fell across his face and shoulders.

When he opened his eyes, Hojo was doing the same to Genesis’ averted head. “There,” Hojo said approvingly. He bandaged his hand, then looked towards the still form on the dais. His eyes slowly bled green. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

* * *

They had to stop too often. It wasted time when they could have taken turns sleeping in the coach, and anyway, Tifa couldn’t relax enough to sleep, so it wasn’t for her benefit.

Besides, the only people using the coach were herself and Aeris. The Turks mostly made their own way. Tifa didn’t know what kind of transport they were using, but it got them away and back without her seeing anything except for a few minutes at mealtime, when someone would bring food to the coach. It was usually Tseng in the mornings, Elena at midday, and anyone who’d gotten injured again in the evenings. 

They didn’t tell Tifa what they were doing, besides stealing food, but they were feeding often enough to heal after a few hours’ rest. Some of them were probably helping Angeal and Nanaki—both of whom stayed within eyesight of the coach, but who slept elsewhere, if at all—clear patrols out of their path. At least one of them was trying to find out the latest news, but all they discovered were that soldiers were blocking the roads to and from North Corel, so no one knew what was happening there.

“And it’s been…I don’t want to say easy, because it’s cost us, but we should be encountering more resistance and we aren’t,” Lazard said. He’d come back at dusk, limping badly, with a pack full of Shinra soldier rations. “I hate to say it, but…”

“We’re being herded,” Angeal finished, tossing aside his half-eaten ration. He still ate food, but less than a child would, making up the difference with the small store of broken summons they had. “Sephiroth and Genesis had to have made it to Midgar by now.”

Lazard cocked his head, which drew a grim, almost challenging smile from the other man. “You can’t think that they were successful,” he said sharply.

“With our current troubles?” Angeal stood and took his sword from its place resting against the coach. “They would have gone straight for Hojo. We’ll go for Jenova.”

Then he swung away from them, striding to the edge of the clearing where they’d stopped the coach. He found a tree and leaned against it to clean his sword.

“I thought they were…they were all friends?” Aeris said uncertainly.

“They were,” Lazard muttered. He offered Tifa another ration, then tossed the pack into the coach when she refused. Then he got slowly to his feet, his face unnaturally stiff and smooth. His hand drifted towards his leg, then curled into a first. “The moment we reach Midgar, he’s going to leave us. So I hope you two have come up with some other plan.”

“What other plan? She has Cloud, and I’m going there to get him.” Tifa still had a few bites of her ration left and she needed to eat them. She needed to keep her strength up. But whenever she looked at the damn thing, her throat began to close on her, and it had nothing to do with the taste of it. “Did you think we were going there for something else?”

Lazard looked at her, hot and furious. For a moment she thought he might try to strike her.

But instead he merely shifted his weight, testing his leg. His face whitened and grew drawn, so the anger thinned, and then he abruptly twisted and sat on the edge of the coach floor, his legs hanging unevenly into the grass. Almost in the same motion, he slumped against the sliding panel, and for a moment Tifa told that he had collapsed.

“I realize you don’t know either of us, but I’m not my brother,” Lazard said dryly. “I do, however, see the benefit of living in a world with one less elder.”

“We do have to stop her, Tifa,” Aeris said. She touched Tifa’s arm. “She’ll eat the whole world otherwise. That’s…it’s the only way to make sure we all are safe.”

“I didn’t say,” Tifa started to snap. Then she pressed her lips together and twisted what was left of her ration in her hand.

She tore the ration in half when something cool and soft brushed her cheek. Aeris looked at her, blushing but still meeting Tifa’s eyes, and then patted the spot her mouth had just touched. “You need to sleep,” Aeris said. “You’ll feel better. You’ll see.”

Then Aeris ducked into the coach. As she climbed behind Lazard, her foot caught on something and she stumbled, but that only seemed to make her more eager to get inside. The sound of furs being enthusiastically bustled about soon began to fill the air.

“Neither of us can inherit now,” Lazard said. He glanced over his shoulder, then slumped further against the panel to avoid the flapping edge of a fur. “You know that, don’t you? We’re demon-bound. We’d never make it through the coronation rituals, at least not without burning ourselves to death, and that is a fate I admit I’m eager to avoid.”

Tifa had known that. And she hadn’t meant what Lazard thought, either—at least, not on purpose. Honestly, she hadn’t known what she had in mind; all she’d meant was that she was tired, so tired, of trying to chase after this or that for everyone but her and Cloud. But she didn’t…want to feel guilty over Lazard’s mistake, either, or to act like she needed his good opinion. It was just more of the same thing, taking care of everything except what she was supposed to take care of.

“What happened to your leg?” she finally asked. “It’s not the same side.”

“No, it’s not, thanks to the kindness of my brother.” A bitter edge entered Lazard’s voice. He glanced over his shoulder again, then began to ease himself to his feet. “No, I’ll take the roof,” he said to Aeris’ query. “No, it’s fine, it’s better for me to get some air. It’s not that serious. I had some difficulty with a pitchfork, and didn’t care to dine on its owner.”

“Someone around here needs to eat,” Tifa said.

Lazard looked up at her, then laughed, half-startled, half-sympathetic. He hooked his arm over the edge of the coach’s roof, but lingered a little. “You know, I never wanted to be a soldier. A minister, very well, if that’s what it took to get what I wanted. But never a soldier.”

“I wanted to be a priestess,” Tifa said. Maybe she didn’t think about it, maybe it was just the fatigue saying. She didn’t really care. “Once.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, a mirror for her exhaustion, and then pulled himself onto the roof. Tifa idly kicked at the broken bits of ration at her feet, then dug into the soil with her heel. She pushed the rations into the dent and covered them roughly, and then went into the coach.

Aeris had layered the furs to make one bed, keeping only a single fur to wrap around herself. She insisted that Tifa take the bed; eventually Tifa crawled onto it, but as soon as she was behind the other woman, she slung her arm around Aeris’ waist and pulled her back onto the furs.

Gasping, Aeris bucked and grabbed at Tifa’s arm. She was surprisingly strong, but the furs were slippery and she only managed to tumble herself into Tifa, her head sliding right under Tifa’s jaw, braid lightly skidding over Tifa’s skin. She still smelled like flowers.

Tifa stiffened, then closed her eyes and breathed in. She felt Aeris move and loosened her grip, but the other woman didn’t leave. On the contrary, Aeris straightened so that her braid pressed into Tifa’s nose, then slowly covered Tifa’s hands with her own.

“Should be thinking,” Tifa eventually said. She turned her head so she could lay her cheek against Aeris’ head. “We do have to get rid of her. Otherwise she’ll just keep coming after us. But I don’t really want to.”

“It’s all right,” Aeris said.

“No, it’s not.” Tifa pressed her cheek more firmly against Aeris’ hair. The coach was moving; someone had closed the side panel while they hadn’t been paying attention. “It’s really not. It took so much just to throw her out of Hewley, and—and I think she wasn’t really that interested in him. I don’t think she was really fighting us. She already had somebody else. So when we face her—it’s going to cost even more. And I am so tired of paying. I don’t want you to die, and I want Cloud back, and I don’t want to die either, but nothing ever goes the way I want.”

“It’ll be all right.” Then Aeris twisted around. Her eyes were by far the brightest things in the coach. She grabbed Tifa’s hands as Tifa tried to pull them away, squeezed them, and then let them go so she could cup Tifa’s face in her hands. “It’ll be _all right_. I’m telling you, it’ll be fine.”

And it wasn’t going to be. They both knew that, but how Aeris could look at her and just—Tifa wanted to believe her. Maybe Tifa even did, for a moment. One resigned, bittersweet moment, because it didn’t hurt to. At this point, it didn’t change anything.

“It’ll be all right,” Aeris said more softly. “I’ll _make_ it all right.”

Her breath veiled Tifa’s face in warmth. She pressed their brows together, her fingertips gently stroking Tifa’s cheeks, and then she tugged Tifa’s head towards the floor.

“Sleep,” Aeris said. “Sleep, and I’ll watch.”

She shouldn’t have, but Tifa did.

* * *

Hojo visited them twice a day, then four times, and then for a long time he was never out of the room. He ranted at them, bled them, bled on them, and then ranted again. Once he grew so frustrated that he spun towards the dais, the chalice in his hand uplifted, only to stiffen as if he had been coated in cement. A thin, whistling noise had gradually become audible: his pained breath, hissing through clenched teeth.

Then he had dropped the chalice. His eyes had flashed green, a moment before he had crumpled to the floor, breathing hoarsely. If he had been only inches closer, Sephiroth could have reached his ankle.

But no. Hojo had recovered and had drawn himself out of reach with a malicious smile, and then he had swept out of the room. And he hadn’t returned for some time.

Genesis had long since ceased to answer to anything, whether it came from Hojo or Sephiroth. His head was turned away from Sephiroth, but his body was too slack, barely moving even for breath. The priests had stopped his deterioration before putting him in the pit, or so they had thought; Sephiroth found his mind chasing that uncertainty in circles like a mad dog, and searched desperately for something else to occupy it.

The form on the dais. Silent, unresponsive, uncaring of everything being done for her, in her name. She had been so damnably loud once. And now she ignored them.

She could at least show her face. He had only had the one nightmarish glimpse of it, and then had had it buried away from him, but bits and pieces of memory had been returning. Half-rotted, skin grey and sloughing off, limbs wrapped round with slimy entrails, and one burning eye, the only life in her. She had looked at him _then_.

He was angry. And he was afraid. He had never known a battle he couldn’t win, an opponent he couldn’t master, and then he had seen the flesh of his friends blacken and had lost himself in her voice and had lain helpless in a stone pit for two years. He would not, could not let that stand. But he had those memories now, crawling in the back of his mind, gnawing and tearing at him. He knew the price of failure as he had not before.

_Oh, my son, my son, why do you doubt me?_

It wasn’t her voice, and yet it was. The same hunger, the same hatred, wrapped seductively around him—but now the voice was male. Warped.

Sephiroth jerked up to the extent the chains would allow, his fury paramount. But his body immediately failed him, sprawling him against the stone. He panted, turning his head, and for a moment he thought that the room was turning with it.

Then he saw the truth, and he fell still as the leather covering on the dais unfurled into two great wings. The body under it sat up, and unblinking green eyes gazed at him.

“Ah.” Hojo had returned at some point. He stood there, his hands clasped together, a look of pure bliss on his face. “My lady. You’ve woken.”

Cloud smiled.

* * *

There was someone else. It was like sitting up in bed and listening to his mother argue with the tradesmen, the woodcutter, anyone else whom they owed money to. The never-ending stream of half-muffled words. The way the thin walls seemed to shiver every time he touched them, wishing he could knock them down and roar into the next room, and just tell them all to get out. But he’d known even then that he couldn’t. That he was too weak, too small, too different. They’d never listen to him. They didn’t listen to him now.

He pressed anyway. Something…he remembered.

His father, bidding him farewell. He couldn’t stay. He wasn’t allowed to stay. The village hadn’t wanted him and it had hurt, it had hurt so _much_ , and then his father had come, his father who he had never known. And it had hurt afterwards, it always hurt, but he had thought he had found a place. For a little while.

But his father had thrown him out, too. Into the cold, more angry voices and fire, and—the one voice screaming his name. Screaming—who he was. He was—

They didn’t want him to have that. They made it hurt. But it always hurt. And he could hear something, someone, just beyond them. Screaming for him again.

He pressed anyway.

* * *

Angeal called a halt just outside of Midgar, then sent the Turks into the city to find out the state of things. He didn’t seem to doubt that they’d listen to him, but Tifa had been working with them long enough, and she’d been ready to volunteer in their place.

But they’d just followed his orders, and Rufus hadn’t said a thing except to advise that they speak to Reeve Tuesti, minister of public works. Then he had retired to one end of the abandoned barn they’d taken over, with Lazard at the other and Angeal outside with Nanaki. Tifa and Aeris had sat inside together, and had taught each other prayers, even though few of Aeris’ would ever work for Tifa. It passed the time, anyway, and it made Aeris happy.

It had been an awkward couple of hours, but eventually the Turks had returned, and they’d brought a young man with them that Tifa hadn’t met before, but that Angeal apparently knew. He had a Shinra soldier’s sword on his back, flirted with Aeris, and kept talking about how Sephiroth needed to relax, but he told them that Sephiroth and Genesis had attacked the palace and killed the king before being captured.

“My, um, condolences,” Zack Fair finished awkwardly, as Rufus shifted against the wall. “I’ve heard that you and your father…but your father’s your father.”

Rufus looked up, then resumed picking at the blood under his nails. “Unless he is, in fact, a puppet of an elder demon. Or Hojo, I see little difference. At any rate, Fair, my brother and I—”

“Where did they take them?” Lazard interrupted harshly.

“To the Shinra temple,” Zack said, looking between the two brothers. “Haven’t seen anything of them since. Haven’t seen anything of _anybody_ , including Hojo. Reeve’s had all he can do to keep people calm, and he’s doing it only because nobody else stepped up to explain why the fuck the palace was on fire. Even still, I think the city’s just a hair away from rioting.”

Rufus jerked his head up, his eyes wide and blank, and Tifa stepped in front of Aeris, while Angeal pivoted so he could draw his sword without slicing Zack in half. But Rufus was ignoring them all, staring at the sky.

So was Lazard, and all of the Turks. A second later, something landed on the roof, making the beams groan under its weight. Tifa smelled sulfur and felt a wash of heat over her back; behind her, Aeris suddenly pressed her hands into the small of Tifa’s back.

Footsteps walked across the roof to one end of the barn. With each step, the beams groaned less, and by the last, they were silent. Then there was a flutter of cloth, and Vincent came in the doorway, followed at a stumble by a tall, ashen-faced man with bandages on both arms and on the neck. It took a moment to recognize Rude, he looked so drained.

“You sensed your element, I presume,” Rufus said tightly. “We’re about to throw this city into hell.” 

Vincent was silent. He stopped in the doorway. When Rude stopped as well, he reached back and waved the other man forward without looking at him; Rude hesitated, then awkwardly eased by and was promptly seized by Reno and Elena, the two of them vying with an eerie lack of noise to offer their wrists to him. The smell of sulfur still lingered.

“What did you do?” Angeal finally said. His voice was cold and hard, and something had changed in the way he held himself. He looked like he would gladly take on Chaos, and like he could, just maybe, _win_. Tifa had known he had been one of Shinra’s best generals, as deep in the killing as his two friends, but she hadn’t really _seen_ it before. “Did you give Cloud to her?”

“A miscalculation,” Vincent said, in Chaos’ voice. “I did not expect her to be there. She was stripped of her powers long ago, and she should not have been able to—”

“Then what were you doing?” Tifa stepped forward. For a moment Aeris’ fingers clutched at her, and…but then Aeris let go. Tifa didn’t look back, but instead stared straight at the flare of fire in Vincent’s eyes. “You said you wanted him to be stronger. So what did you try?”

The stink of sulfur abruptly strengthened, till Tifa had to force down a cough. On either side of Vincent the shadows thickened. “I wanted a priest to question,” graveled Chaos’ voice. “I wanted to know how she had risen. She fooled even me.”

Tifa felt anger clench her from head to toe. She stared at him, then jerked herself around on her heel and took a step away from him. Then another. His growl made her back tremble but she kept her head up.

“So,” Chaos said. “Blood of the Ancients.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tifa said, over Aeris’ small, thin inhale. She still didn’t turn. “I’ll swear myself to the worst of you, and let them eat my soul after they tear out your heart.”

“You’re already taken that path, girl.” Then there was a rough, twisting snarl, like two voices battering each other, and a fumbling step. Another. The sound of a knee hitting the ground.

Someone else moved. Tifa glanced at Angeal, at the way he was balanced on the balls of his feet, and then shook her head. She pulled at her gauntlets, nails catching on the swollen, raw flesh under one. A smaller hand touched the underside of her wrist, where the pain was the worst, then withdrew.

“Are you coming or not?” Tifa muttered, and then she looked behind her.

Vincent still knelt. His head was bowed and his armored hand was pressed against the ground. The claws moved a little, then snapped out, making the metal crack. It fell off in great, jagged pieces that glinted among drips of blood. The arm underneath was coated in wet, bright red, and as Vincent stood, the blood ran off it in an unceasing stream.

“I paid for this,” he said to her. “Yes, I will come.”

Then he turned and walked out of the barn. A shadow moved across the shining crimson trail he left behind—Rufus, hesitating, and then throwing back his head and shoulders. “We will draw the priests out of the temple,” he said. “What’s inside is yours to see to.”

He followed Vincent out of the temple, his head high and proud, and one by one, the Turks fell in after him. Elena paused long enough to give Tifa a nod; Reno also made a careless salute in her direction, and Tseng a much more formal one to Angeal, who merely snorted. And then Lazard came last, so reluctant that he stopped in the doorway until the rest of them had come up to him.

“Not the return you were expecting, Shinra?” Angeal said.

Vincent and the Turks were already heading for the city, but Rufus had stayed. He stood a few yards from them, half-turned towards Midgar with his eyes narrowed on Lazard. “He’s not Shinra,” he said, almost lightly.

Lazard was still, except for one hand that slid slowly up and down his hip. “You paid for me to be one.” 

“Yes, well, one doesn’t always receive what was ordered,” Rufus said.

He kept watching Lazard, his face changing from contemptuous to interested to uncomprehending as Lazard took one step forward, then another. Then another, until he was walking towards Rufus. He abruptly swerved, as if to go past the man, and then stopped to put his hand on Rufus’ shoulder; Rufus stared at it, then at Lazard’s face, his simmering anger raw in a way Tifa hadn’t seen before.

Before Lazard had even lifted his hand, Rufus was twisting out from under it. He stepped back a pace and Lazard strode past him without looking. Rufus turned towards the other man so his back was towards Tifa. His hand went up and clamped over his shoulder, the knuckles turning white. Then he pulled it off. He flicked his fingers, like he would to shake off dirt, and then walked after Lazard with the same arrogant swing in his step as always.

“Well, this isn’t the damn return _I_ was expecting,” Fair muttered. “What did _that_ mean? And isn’t that—the man with the claws that came off, isn’t he going to bleed out before we get anywhere? And what are we doing in the temp—”

“Just kill everything I tell you to, and don’t kill anything else,” Angeal said.

Fair blinked, and then he grinned up at Angeal as if he’d just been presented with the sun and the moon. “Wait. You’re _not_ going to make me go wait with Reeve and watch everybody else go insane? I’m coming and killing priests like everyone else?”

“Puppy,” Angeal said after a moment, shaking his head in disgust. Then he looked over at Tifa, sobering.

“Get us inside, and I’ll find him,” Tifa said. She felt Aeris’ hand slip into hers and she twisted their fingers together. “And we’ll get him.”

* * *

Cloud had remained crouching on the dais, his wings flared so their edges brushed the ceiling, unnaturally still and unblinking. At first Hojo had tried to entice him down, and had grown angry again when Cloud had not responded, but then Hojo had gone stiff. Only the man’s lips had moved, with no sounds passing through them.

Then Hojo had smiled. “Yes,” he had fawned. “Yes, yes, of course.”

He’d called in other priests. Mute, eerie things masquerading as men, with hands as cold as ice. Sephiroth had lashed out and caught one in the hand so a finger snapped. The bone stuck out through bloodless flesh that began to blacken as the hand, uncaring of its injury, clamped around Sephiroth’s arm. And the faces that looked down at Sephiroth were thin, or fat, or squat or long, and yet they all seemed to take on the same features if he looked too long. He found himself flinching from their empty green eyes.

The priests had dragged Sephiroth and Genesis, still bound in chains, out of the room and through the halls till they had emerged at the top of the temple, on a flat square of roof where the high priest stood to bless the new year. They dropped Genesis at the top of the stairs, then picked him back up at Hojo’s barked command and dragged him towards a metal statue at the far end of the platform. More priests pulled Sephiroth up next to him, and then they all drew back in a semicircle around the statue.

Most of the statue was made of steel, but the great wings that fanned out on either side were tipped with orichalc, and so was the headdress. More orichalc made up a headdress and marked out the features of the serene, pitiless face. The torso was female, but lacked arms or indeed, anything below the waist. At first Sephiroth thought that the statue was damaged. But then Hojo stepped forward with a handful of orbs, and their light showed Sephiroth that no seam ran between the end of the torso and the beginning of the oblong, strangely curved pedestal on which it sat.

Hojo walked between Sephiroth and the statue, raising his hands in prayer. He would have been easy to—but the statue’s eyes gleamed. Glowed, their malignant gaze catching Sephiroth and holding him firmly still.

_my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son_

Her voice rang through his bones. It was like the lash of a winter gale, stripping in an instant, and without a second’s delay as it blew on behind him. Still praying, Hojo reached up and put his hands on the bottom of the torso. He tugged, twisted, and then a crack appeared in the middle of the torso, running between the breasts. The chin levered up, wavered, and tilted sideways as the face plate fell. Then the torso unfolded, and inside was Jenova’s rotting corpse, with the same baleful eye that Sephiroth remembered.

Except that it was fixed on something—someone behind Sephiroth. He heard the soft flap, felt a slight breeze slither over his back, and he heaved up against Jenova’s grasp, trying desperately to at least turn his head. But even her attention elsewhere, she held him fast. He tried to hold his breath, thinking that near-unconsciousness might force her out, and his ribs screamed as she made him breathe.

_My son_ , she said. _You who should have always been mine. All children are mine, all children come to me, all who are forsaken, and now you have._

Hojo’s chanting rose steeply to a near-scream, then suddenly died. Jenova’s hold—flickered. One of Sephiroth’s fingers moved at his will and not hers. 

Then Hojo resumed his prayers, a trace of irritation in his voice. It soon smoothed away and once again, Jenova’s voice twisted through them, fawning and imperious at the same time, welcoming her new child. And then—a second time. This time Sephiroth dragged his arm forward.

A third. Hojo snarling the words now, his arms waving wildly, his ankle within the half-circle of Sephiroth’s fingers, if they could only close. He shrieked at his goddess, then whirled around. For a moment he stared at Sephiroth, eyes blind with rage.

“They _dare_ ,” he said, her voice echoing in his own. “Those miserable insects.”

Then he began pulling at his robes. His right hand raked down the cloth, leaving long rips in its wake, and when it rose for another pass, its fingers were shorter and fatter and topped with claws. The robes fell from his neck and chest, but the stiff fabric collected about his waist. His skin was turning green mottled with black and it smelled of rot; when it split over his shoulders, gobbets of fat and muscle dripped down his arms but no blood. Two hideous stumps rose up from behind each shoulder.

“They dare!” Hojo shouted.

And then Sephiroth heard the shouts and screams, the crackling roar of fire, the snaky hiss of magic. Footsteps scuffled around him, behind him. Then the wind rushed from above and flesh _tore_ , and Jenova shuddered in his head. She was furious.

She released him. The chains restricted his movement but they didn’t fasten him to the ground here. He threw himself sideways, into Genesis, and pushed them both up against the base of Jenova’s casing.

Hojo began to turn towards them, then toppled over as something dark and huge rammed into his side. Its wings obscured the fight, then swept the elder demon out of the way and nearly to the edge of the platform. On the other side, Hojo reared up, his flesh scored in half a dozen places, some deeply enough for a putrid black fluid to spill out, but far taller than before. His lower body had merged into a shapeless dark red mass, with green and black veins pumping sluggishly across it.

“You dare,” he sneered.

Chaos crouched, his wings folding neatly against his back, gore dripping down the two great horns that adorned his head. A dead priest was crushed under his feet, while the bodies of two more lay splayed across the platform. The rest were nowhere in sight.

“I see,” Chaos said. “I see now. You _mortal_.”

“It was stolen from me!” Hojo—Jenova—hissed. “Stolen! My power, my children. Unjustified—but I’ve bought it back. I bought it back, I paid the blood, I paid the lives, you cannot stop me. I _paid_. And now it must be given to me.”

“Your priest paid, out of more stolen coin,” Chaos said scornfully. “No true sacrifice. The coin is counterfeit and it will not last.”

Black bled into Hojo’s face, till only the hot fury of his eyes could be made out. And then they grew cold and calm, and he smiled. “It will last longer than you,” she said.

Chaos leaped at Hojo, who spread his arms wide to welcome the demon. Too last, Chaos snapped his wings out, but they couldn’t slow him before spears of bone sprang from Hojo’s stunted wings and pierced his flesh. Roaring, the two of them grappled with each other.

Sephiroth twisted out from under Genesis’ body. He still heard Jenova, still felt her dragging on his limbs—and still felt the echoes through her, crying out from her lesser children. A mass of fire consuming one priest in a courtyard. Another ripping strips of flesh from a Turk’s shoulder. The swing of a familiar sword—something wrenched sharply in Sephiroth’s chest—into a third priest’s leg, pinning it to stone. He shook his head, trying to settle his surroundings to just one, and his chains rattled against metal.

Jenova was screaming in his head, screaming for Chaos’ blood, but she was stretched too thin—then Sephiroth understood. Demons bound souls, but they collected at death. Even with possession, the demon shared with the soul; the body might suffer harm but the demon could always leave. If one of Chaos’ servants died, it would reduce his resources but do no personal damage to him.

But she had had her powers stripped from her, and had only taken them back because she had stolen into people’s souls, and cobbled them together for herself. _They_ were her soul. And she took more than one because they died as she took hold of them, and as they died, so she died. Sephiroth and Genesis and Angeal had been the strongest, had lasted the longest, but in the end they would drag her down with them as their bodies failed. To truly rise again, she needed someone whose body would not fail. Someone who had already died and had returned, and whose soul was already lost.

Until then, she was as mortal as they were.

Sephiroth struggled up against the casing. He felt his arm slip over the edge and strike something unpleasantly soft, sucking. In his head, her voice rose to a howl and then freefell to a whisper; Chaos worried at one of Hojo’s wings, his teeth doggedly grinding through even as Hojo rent Chaos’ sides with his claws. Sephiroth made himself twist around, and pushed his hands more firmly into Jenova’s corpse.

Her flesh was like wet sand, yielding when he pushed and unyielding when he pulled. She stuck to the inside of the casing. He twisted and heaved, and finally, felt her shift a fraction. Then a fraction more. Her head flopped out, and then a wing. Then, as slow as syrup, the rest of her began to slide down the casing. There was no room so Sephiroth bent himself around the base of the casing, and pressed his mouth shut and held his breath as she slid wetly over his arm and his knee.

She rolled onto one side, then rocked back, pushed by the stumps of wings. Sephiroth had to drop his head to his arms as Jenova lashed out at him. His back arched as she tried to make him crawl away.

Then he collapsed, gasping, as Jenova’s body skidded away from him. Her voice rose—and he had his hands around Genesis’ throat even as the other man gave the body another shove. Genesis choked and thrashed, catching at the chains around Sephiroth. The iron links pulled taut, the binding magic in them straining, but Jenova was in Sephiroth and angry and stronger. She broke them as if they were glass and then Sephiroth was—was—Genesis’ throat blackening under his hands, Genesis’ arms flat on the ground, their muscles jerking helplessly against Jenova’s hold.

Chaos roared, and Sephiroth’s vision doubled. Genesis dying beneath him. Angeal striding away from a darkening vision. 

And then Sephiroth was smashing his hands against the stone, his fingers breaking, even as a hard grip dragged him off Genesis. “Kill,” Sephiroth rasped.

“Kill her,” Genesis coughed. He had half-curled into himself. “Angeal?”

Angeal leaped easily over Genesis to land by Jenova’s body. His sword went up and down, and then Jenova’s head and body were separate. Then it lifted again, but to cleave in two a priest that had been rushing up from behind, the beginnings of a spell swirling around his hands. The pieces went sliding away, towards the feet of two women: Tifa and a stranger.

“Damn it.” Genesis forced himself up on his arms, then reached back and grabbed Sephiroth’s arm. He dragged Sephiroth up beside him. “ _Burn_ her.”

Two more priests had attacked Angeal. Sephiroth’s head was spinning with their ducks and dodges, with the flash of Angeal’s sword in his face, and then Jenova screamed again. He slammed Genesis to the ground again, then raised his other hand, flames gathering in his palm. If they wanted to burn—he flinched, a priest dying, Chaos holding up Hojo’s torn arm before Hojo’s eyes, and Genesis seized his arm and flung the fire into Jenova’s body.

It went up as if made of paper, then died just as quickly into a pile of fine white ash. Sephiroth stared at it, then at the gurgling beyond the ash. Chaos sat on Hojo’s ruined body, panting, while the enraged disbelief on Hojo’s mangled face slowly settled into death.

Chaos smiled, a long serpentine tongue licking out between rows of fangs, and then whipped violently, as if he was trying to fold his head to the heels of his feet. A hot wind swept around him and he shrank, still writhing, until he was a naked man, covered in black and red blood, with a strangely bereft expression. He raised his hand, then put it into the fleshy hole of Hojo’s throat as the rest of his body slowly slumped down. “I paid,” he said quietly.

“ _I_ paid,” said Jenova, from above, and then Cloud Strife landed silently on the platform, his eyes blank and green. “I paid.”

* * *

They gave the Turks a half-hour to start, and then Angeal led them into the city, with Zack taking up the rear. At first they steered clear of the fighting, just trying to get to the Shinra temple as quickly as possible, but then the priests began to appear. They came out of nowhere, used spells that they shouldn’t have been capable of wielding, and sometimes even carried swords.

“But they don’t even cut their own butter,” Zack grunted, fending off one. Then he yelped and twisted to parry a blow meant to take off his leg.

He would’ve been too late if Tifa hadn’t kicked the priest in the head. She’d barely landed when Angeal dragged her back and pushed her at Aeris.

“Sorry, but you need your blood for praying. Can’t waste a drop,” Angeal said. He didn’t pause as he pivoted and halved a priest’s head. “They fight like Se—go. Go find him, we’ll follow.”

It still seemed to take forever to reach the temple. Sprinting, jumping, climbing, dodging swords on roofs and in the streets. Aeris began to gasp, then to wheeze, her face pale and sweaty as she struggled to keep up. A few times they had to stop and fight until she could run again. She tried to apologize, but Tifa pulled the other woman to her by the waist, muffling Aeris in her shoulder, and half-carried her along.

When they reached the temple, the gates were wide open, and a trail of blood and bits of flesh too crushed to identify led them through the halls. The whole place sang with dark, decaying power, worse than any Lord of the Dark or even elder demon that Tifa had ever run across. Elders were at least full of…of life, even if it was born out of the misery and death of others. And the souls of the dead were vicious but thin as tissue. What filled the temple was beyond dead, and as thick and suffocating as a peat bog.

Tifa was almost glad to get into the air again. And then she saw what was on the platform.

She sank to her knees, only dimly sensing that Aeris had sunk with her. Over to her left, a fire leaped white and hot, then died. To her right, Vincent was coming back to himself amidst the remains of someone’s body. And right in front of her, Cloud was coming down from the sky, black leathery wings stretching out of his back.

He didn’t know her. He didn’t hear her. She knew Aeris was already chanting, even though the other woman had barely any breath, her voice a dry whisper, but she couldn’t look away from him.

Aeris squeezed her shoulder. Then shook her. Tifa kept staring at Cloud and he never looked at her. He only looked at Sephiroth.

Cloud took a step forward. His eyes weren’t his own.

“Tifa,” Aeris said quietly, calmly. As if nothing in the world existed right now, except for her and for Tifa. “You’re a priestess. Remember. You’re a priestess, and _you_ , and no one else.”

Cloud took another step. Sephiroth pushed himself up on shaking arms, then stilled, eyes wide and unseeing and fixed on Cloud. Then he reached around and pulled someone from his side to lie down before him, throat bared to the sky. Genesis didn’t resist, his limbs flopping awkwardly about.

Aeris squeezed Tifa’s shoulder again, her voice lifting in another prayer. Then she crushed up against Tifa, the beginnings of a scream in Tifa’s ear, as Angeal came forward, slashing his sword at Cloud.

Too low, too far, just a glancing blow. _Meant_ to wound, Tifa realized, even as a white crackling light shot into Angeal’s side. His sword clattered to the ground and he was thrown through the air, landing only a few feet from Tifa. He’d snapped bones; his face was bloody when he jerked painfully over, red bubbles coming from his nose and mouth.

Sephiroth didn’t look at him. The white light stopped crackling around Sephiroth’s hand as he lowered it to Angeal’s sword. Then he paused, his face contorting. His fingers uncurled, then curled, and the sword rose an inch.

“Cloud,” Tifa said. Aeris’ fingers were driven into her shoulder like iron nails, but the pain just made a haze in her head. “Cloud!”

“Tifa. _Tifa_.” Not calm now, Aeris, stumbling over her prayers as she tried to hang onto Tifa. She hung off Tifa’s shoulder for the first step, clawed Tifa’s back for the next, and was sobbing behind Tifa for the third. “Tifa!”

He didn’t know her, but Tifa ran anyway. The sword took her in the back, sliding through her flesh like it was wet paper, and her vision was already darkening as she dug her fingers into Cloud’s arm.

“I know you,” Tifa whispered. “I know you, I remember you, I was there. I know you, I know you. I know you. Oh, Cloud, I know you.”

It was the first prayer she’d ever said for him. Tied to the altar, her shoulder bleeding where the knife had gone astray, and she had looked up and he had looked down. Just as he looked down now, the pupils of his eyes twisting like snakes.

And then they were round, and widening, and Tifa prayed to him, _for_ him, the blood slipping her hands off his arm finger by finger. She didn’t believe, oh, she didn’t believe, because she _knew_.

* * *

You are my child. My lost one, my forgotten son, someone was saying.

But it wasn’t his mother. He remembered his mother. His mother had never lost him. He had lost _her_. He hadn’t—if he hadn’t been what he was, his mother wouldn’t have lost her life.

You are mine. _Mine_. She was weak, she was mortal, she left you to me.

No, Cloud thought, and then he felt the shiver and it was between him and something _else_ , some other, an _other_. Not him. He was not alone, he was not only himself. 

But his father, his father had said, if nothing else, Strife, you shall be beholden to no one. He hadn’t understood—

Your father is _weak_. He was mine, and he will be mine again, him and you and the rest. You are all weak and I will not wait, I will not pay any more, I will _take_.

—because he had been leaving, he’d had to leave, and he hadn’t wanted to be alone but he was going to be. Because he was too poor, once again, had nothing, could not afford the way. And his father had said, but you have your soul. You have not offered me that, although you have offered me everything else. And everything else is not nearly so precious. I have tried, my son. I have asked you, over and over, but you will not turn over to me the one thing that would bind you to me forever, and so I cannot keep you.

I _will_ keep you, she crooned, fury seething beneath her lure. I will keep you forever and forever, and you do not have to ask.

But.

But I will keep you. She towered over him again, incandescent with rage. I will keep you, and your priestess, and Chaos and his get, and my own get, and I will. I will. I will.

But.

But you are _mine_! she howled, battering him.

But all I want, he had said to his father, desperately. All I want is to love you. To know I love you. Isn’t this giving you what you want?

No, his father had said. No, my son, it is not. For what you have done, is that you have taken the one thing I can take from you and you have put it beyond my power. And so you must leave.

I will keep you, she told him. I have taken you from them, from your mother, from your father, from your friends. You are only mine.

No, Cloud told her. Because I remember. Because I know. Because I love, and you do not, and because I am poor, I am weak, I am lost, but still, I know who I love.

They will never love you, she hissed, receding, leaving streaks of pain in her wake. They will never see you. I will take you first, take all of you, and leave nothing for them.

But I will see them, he said. I hear them already, and I will see them. Take what you will, I don’t care. But I see them. And he opened his eyes.

* * *

Sephiroth’s broken fingers let the sword slip the moment Jenova weakened. He collapsed onto his side, his leg slivered against the edge of the blade. Above him Cloud was staggering, clutching his head, his wings whipping up the air around them into a windstorm. Then he abruptly dropped to his knees. First one wing, then another slapped the ground.

It began to rain. The water hissed against Sephiroth’s skin, blood warm and then warmer, burning like acid. He flattened himself uselessly to the ground, then lifted his head to see a thick, foul stream of black fluid splatter under him. The stuff writhed and then withered in the rain pooling on the stone, as if poisoned. He heard footsteps, running ones, but couldn’t look because he was vomiting more of the black fluid.

“Tifa,” said a choked voice. That strange girl, hunched over Tifa’s fallen body. Her hands were glowing on Tifa’s side and hip, pouring in magic, but the red continued to spiral out into the puddles around Tifa.

The burning was—was easing. Less black stuff came up out of Sephiroth, and what did was tarry, clumping, the dregs. He pushed himself up and the girl buried her face in Tifa’s side, twisting Tifa slightly so that Sephiroth could see the last feeble movements of Tifa’s lips, the slow glaze of her eyes.

“I can’t—why can’t I heal her?” The girl lifted her head and looked at her hands, then wildly about her. Sephiroth, Genesis, Angeal’s broken face a little further back. “I healed you! Why not her?”

“She gave herself up,” Angeal said. Barely intelligible, the line of his jaw awry. “Bled out. Called him. Spell, not injury.”

The girl turned almost viciously on Angeal, but then slumped over Tifa again. She raised her hands as if they were filled with lead, then lowered them. Then she put one on Tifa’s shoulder, breathed in sharply and stiffened. She stared at her arm, at a cut on it. 

She dove for Angeal’s sword and then, in the space she’d left behind Tifa, Sephiroth saw Cloud. The other man was still on his knees, his head pressed to the ground so his wings reared up behind him, and one wing was running with the same black fluid that had come out of Sephiroth, that had drained out of Angeal’s side, that was smeared over Genesis’ mouth and hands.

It was melting. Liquefying, first the edges and then great rents in the flaps of skin between the bony fingers. And now Sephiroth could hear her. Distantly, her voice weakening even as he concentrated on it, screaming in rage and then in—in fear. She begged him.

He stopped listening. Then, when she lashed out, shut her out. Pushed her away, listened to the silence that swept into her place.

“Cloud,” he said. His voice sounded as if he’d swallowed his own sword. “Cloud.”

Only a bony, mangled stump remained of Cloud’s wing when he looked up. His eyes were weary, grief-stricken, and his own. They widened when they found Sephiroth, full of shock and quick anger and even quicker guilt, and—and then understanding. He was serene when he put his head back against the ground.

The rain was running clear off his back, then pink. Then red. His remaining wing dragged itself wide so that they could see the great welts spreading across the membranes. They swelled till the skin split and blood streamed out.

“Cloud. _Cloud_.” Sephiroth reached for him, then twisted around. “You. Girl. You said—”

The girl turned to face him. “I can’t heal him,” she said. She had pulled Tifa into her arms, Tifa’s head on her shoulder, her bloody arm around Tifa’s back. Angeal’s sword laid beside them, fresh blood on it. “I’m not supposed—we don’t work in blood, it’s the old way, even older than the Ancients, and—”

“I don’t care,” Sephiroth snarled. He reached out and dragged at Cloud’s shoulder. His broken hand failed him and he had to pull the rest of his broken body over and use its weight to push Cloud onto him. “He killed her. He freed us. _Heal_ him. Or I’ll bleed you—”

“I _am_! I already am, don’t you see?” she cried. She threw out her arm and flung a handful of blood into his face. “I’m trying, but I’m not used to—I don’t know how. I’m bleeding already. I’m bleeding and it’s for Tifa, because she called him, because she’s still calling him—can’t you hear her? But she can’t hear me. She can’t and if she can’t, she can’t tell him to come back and I’m bleeding for her and it’s not working!”

“Sephiroth.” Angeal fell beside them, his body a failing mess. He coughed out a clot of blood, then sighed as if he were merely laying himself in bed. “Sephiroth. Let her.”

“You have to give it, freely, or else the coin has no value and will fail,” Genesis said softly. “That was her mistake.”

He smiled at Angeal, who smiled back. “Good to see you again,” Angeal said roughly, looking from him to Sephiroth. “It’s good, but—I have something to do.”

Then Angeal bent his head, and let a trickle of blood spill out of his mouth. He shuddered, his breath wet and sticking, and spat out more blood, till a thin line of it ran away from him and towards Cloud.

“To become the dew that quenches the land,” Genesis whispered, watching the blood flow. “To spare the sands, the seas, the skies, I offer thee this silent sacrifice.”

“You?” Sephiroth said. Against him Cloud pressed limply, the only movement a weakening hitch of the back with each breath.

Genesis looked down at Cloud. “He would never ask, although I owe the debt,” he said slowly. “So yes, I offer.”

Then he too bent down, and let the blood from his wounds drip onto Cloud’s body. Cloud stiffened, then twisted sharply, _away_ —Sephiroth held the man still, and slowly, unevenly, Cloud’s wing lowered till it trailed across the stone. The rivulets of blood sluicing across it began to ebb. Sephiroth breathed in.

Cloud twisted weakly. Then he kicked out and shoved into Sephiroth, knocking them over. For a moment he scrabbled on top of Sephiroth, and then he was nearly across and away. Sephiroth grabbed desperately at him and just caught his wrist. The wing rose over them, then was coming down hard when Sephiroth pushed himself up with the last of his strength and pressed his mouth to the other man’s.

He reached for Cloud. If it required blood, he thought, his was flowing freely enough. Blood was meaningless to him. It had linked him to Hojo, to his long-departed birth mother, and to Jenova.

They were all dead. And he was free of them, had no ties beyond them, and yet he could not leave. He did not have all that he wanted, and he would not leave without it. And…he would pay, for what he wanted. He would give up what did have value, what hurt to tear from his chest and hold out, what hurt deeper than anything else to give up because he _had_ never given it up before. Not even to Jenova, for she had not cared whether he loved her or not; she had not understood the idea. She had only understood that when she was there, he had had nothing but her in his mind, and that was not the same.

So Sephiroth called Cloud, and made his offering.

* * *

It was a complete mess by the time Zack got there. Half the city was in danger of going up in flames, and people were screaming and throwing things out windows and blocking all the damn streets. He tried to grab a few, tell them to stop, but they only attacked _him_. So he just gave up and kept moving. Hopefully Reeve or someone else got people under control, or at least calm enough to dig some fire ditches, because the soldiers had all just…dropped. They were lying here and there, getting trampled or knifed or ignored, and Zack couldn’t do anything about them either.

He just went for the Shinra temple, hoping that whatever was there would one, explain things and two, fix them. Zack had fallen behind Angeal and the two women while dealing with the crazed priests who’d sprung up all over the place, but he’d still seen the light show atop the temple. Clearly, that was where the main battle had happened.

And it was an even worse mess. Disgusting heaps of robes all over the place, soaked in some kind of stinking black stuff that Zack devoutly prayed was flammable. Scorched stone, glassy glowing patches where magic had gone astray. The whole place would have to be scoured and exorcised and de-spelled, and every other kind of cleaning. If there was even a mage alive left in the city.

There were…whatever the Turks were, these days. He ran into Reno and Rude at the front gates, both horribly pale and gaunt but Reno, at least, still had enough blood to snap his fangs and jerk the mage staff he’d acquired in the right direction. Cissnei and Elena were sitting on a staircase that was completely pitch dark before Zack carried in the torch he’d found—he didn’t even want to try a simple orb spell, in case he triggered some fried ward—and apparently too tired to even give a damn.

Tseng was on the last floor before the roof, his head in Rufus’ lap and his mouth wrapped around Lazard’s wrist. He wasn’t in any shape to mind Zack’s good, long stare, but Rufus curtly suggested that Zack be on his way and Lazard didn’t really do anything to discourage the idea. Whatever the hell was up between the two brothers, they’d called a temporary truce. Lazard was even letting Rufus lean on his shoulder.

And then Zack was slipping and groping his way up the final set of stairs, expecting any moment to get his head taken off, or to be blasted into the underworld by half a dozen powers. Every step was absolutely soaked, to the point that if he didn’t give his foot a moment to sink down, his boot would slide on the blood. The air crackled with so much magic that breathing was like having a ball of lightning in each lung. He called out a couple times, but all he heard were the faint sounds of a woman crying.

He hadn’t been expecting great news. Sure, he’d had a couple seconds of being a little dreamy kid again, seeing the return of his heroes and wishing that they would make everything right with just a swing of the sword, but he’d _lived_ the two years they’d been gone. He’d seen the priests dragging out Rufus and Lazard and the Turks, and chaining them to poles in the wastelands. He’d counted the people who’d disappeared into the temple and never been seen again, till he had had to just stop and forget the number to get through the day. And he’d seen his fellow soldiers change one by one, someone he knew and then…someone else looking out from behind glassy eyes. He’d still been damn glad that Angeal and Rhapsodos and Sephiroth were back—even if they clearly weren’t the men they had been, and not necessarily in a weaker or better way—and were ready to go up against Hojo and the priesthood, but he hadn’t been fooling himself. Things were bad. And they were going to end it, but after that?

Well, if he survived, he was going to try, because somebody had to. Aeris seemed like she had a good heart, and maybe Tifa would be less cold once she got her friend back. But demons against demons—frankly, the fact that Rufus Shinra had survived alone told Zack it wasn’t going to be all roses afterward. It had been terrible what the king had done to his sons, something nobody deserved, but Rufus Shinra. Allied with demons. Seriously.

It said something that even that was a better prospect than what they’d been living with. 

Zack wavered on the top step, then shook himself. It _was_ better. Whatever there was up there, it was better than the slow, suffocating grip of horror Hojo had imposed on them all. Hojo, and whatever he’d been up to, Zack hadn’t known how to fight. He’d just had to…to watch, and feel the ice twist ever deeper in his gut. But Rufus, fuck, even the generals if it came to that…well, he’d fight. If he had to. He hoped not, but fuck, he wasn’t ever going to find out, just standing there.

He took that last step, and emerged into the open air. The platform was…he took it in without seeing it, and then the smell hit him. 

Flowers and blood. He got woozy for a second, sick like he had never, ever been, and then he forced it down. He was Zack fucking _Fair_. Of all things, he did not damn well vomit at a _smell_.

Valentine, completely stark naked and curled up in the gutted torso of…someone. Zack just recognized the fragments of clothing on the body but didn’t want to think that one through just then. Anyway, Valentine looked dead, but didn’t seem to have a wound on him. He jerked when Zack got closer, pulling his knees closer under his chin, but didn’t make any move towards waking up.

Some kind of giant sarcophagus was at one end of the platform. It was empty, but the way it was shaped…Zack tried to make sense of it, couldn’t, and looked down. Five people were sitting or lying around the base of the sarcophagus. All of them looked terrible. Sephiroth seemed least worst off, or at least, was most aware, but he had his back pushed against the sarcophagus like he needed considerably more than just the support. His hair was so matted with blood and other fluids that really, it was his eyes that let Zack recognize him.

“Fair,” he said calmly.

Rhapsodos and Angeal were on either side of him. Angeal’s legs were sprawled out but he had himself propped up on one arm, and was poking and prodding at what had to be a broken nose, probably a broken jaw, too. Rhapsodos didn’t even bother to try; his eyes were slit open enough for Zack to see he was awake, but he just laid there, his body slack in the way of serious internal injuries. His neck was black and blue and swollen like an overripe grape.

“I think all the priests are dead,” Zack finally said. He had a strong feeling they already knew that, but he didn’t know what else to say, and he didn’t honestly want to ask questions. And he was a soldier, and they were—had been—his commanders, and old habits and not thinking and just. Shit. “So’s at least half the army. They all just…stopped. And the rest, I don’t know, I think best case is they wish they were dead.”

Aeris was on her knees, her back to Zack, with someone cradled in her lap. Her head was down and her arms were around them, and Zack was all ready to just shove that one aside, too, because he just was too damn tired. He’d been tired for months now, grieving for everything he’d seen die or disappear, and he just…but then the legs trailing out beside Aeris flexed. Zack lifted his sword without thinking, then flushed and lowered it.

“Hey, is she all right?” Zack asked.

The legs stilled. Aeris shivered, her one hand dropping back and down, like she was reaching for a weapon, almost—Zack hadn’t seen her use so much as a knife, though she handled herself well enough to keep out of others’ way—and then slowly looked over her shoulder. 

She looked…old. Well, not really. It wasn’t like her hair had greyed and her skin had gone all papery and wrinkled. But it wasn’t just that she looked like she’d been through a terrible few days. She looked like—like something had been cut out of her inside, like everything was just that little bit thinner and less strong, and like she’d hardened the outside to compensate. She looked up at Zack like she was happy to see him still alive—the only one so far, he had to say—but it was a strange, distant happiness, full of hurt. 

“I’m fine.” Tifa pushed herself off of Aeris and onto her feet. She crouched for a moment, leaning on her hands, and then carefully stood up, moving as if she hadn’t done that for a very long time. Or like this was her first time.

Her gauntlets were off, and a large rent in her tunic flapped open so that Zack could see a long silver scar across her belly. More scars ran over her arms. Then Zack got to her face and he started, because she looked healthy. Nice glow to her skin, clear eyes, and his hand tightened on his sword for a moment, because that was just wrong, in the middle of all this.

She noticed, but just pushed her hair back from her face. “He healed, so I healed,” she said, and then frowned. “I mean Cloud. We found him.”

“Great,” Zack said. He absently twisted his sword, trying to remember what—right. “Jenova?”

“Dead,” Sephiroth said, still calm. He didn’t even sound satisfied with a job well done, if not a little fucking pleasure at getting rid of the damn demon that had ruined his life. He could have been just stating the weather.

Well, it was his life. He could feel however he wanted about it, Zack supposed. “Hojo?”

“Dead,” Sephiroth said, and finally, a little emotion in his voice. Even if it was disappointment and irritation. He glanced past Zack, at the thing Valentine was napping in.

Angeal laughed. It came out all wet and clicking, as bones that really shouldn’t be moving moved in ways whole ones wouldn’t. Tifa looked over, her eyes widening, and then really looked around, taking in everybody. For a couple moments she looked as lost and confused as Zack felt. But before he could commiserate, she abruptly pressed her hand to her mouth and stared off to the side. About a thousand things were fighting to be her expression.

“The king?” Zack asked. Just because he needed to fill the silence. He didn’t even care, honestly. Whoever wanted to take the fucking throne could. Even Rufus, so long as he didn’t eat people and found priests who didn’t eat them either.

Sephiroth tilted his head, both in pain and in exasperation, because he clearly agreed that the head of the government was not even close to the top of any sensible list of priorities. “Dead. Fair, your dedication is commendable, but—”

“Fuck dedication. I just wanted it to be over.” Zack hesitated. “Is it over? If Cloud’s healed, if you found him, then…”

Sephiroth stiffened, and for a serious second, even with a sword and reasonable defensive capability and with Sephiroth six ways broken and clearly not welcoming a reason to get to his feet any time soon, Zack was terrified for his life. Then Sephiroth grimaced and let Zack out of his gaze. He looked…broken wasn’t the word. He still could use the pieces. Confused, maybe? Except he knew…whatever it was, he knew it.

A couple steps from embarrassed, almost. Like he knew what it was, but didn’t know…didn’t want to touch it. Maybe was even afraid to touch it. Didn’t know how it worked, didn’t…want to fuck it up. He wanted it, but he just didn’t want to chance it right now.

“We found him.” Tifa had her arm around herself, but her head was up and her face settled. Whatever she’d realized, she’d made terms with it. “He’s all right.”

“So where is he?” Zack asked, one eye on Sephiroth. “I was looking forward to meeting him, actually, after everything I’ve heard. I mean…”

He stopped when he heard a quiet sob, the same voice he’d heard before. Tifa stopped too, frowning. Then she looked down like she couldn’t quite believe it.

“Sorry,” Aeris said. “I’m—I’m sorry. I just—you’re fine. You’re fine, he’s fine, and I…”

“Are you all right?” Zack said.

Tifa glanced at him like that was completely the wrong thing to say, but she didn’t do anything. She didn’t make a move for Aeris either, but just stood there and waited for the other woman to work it out.

“I’m not going back to the temple,” Aeris finally managed. She laughed, except it turned into another sob, and then she fought with that a little bit. She won, more or less, and wiped at her face with a shaking hand, leaving little streaks of dried blood made wet again. “I can’t, not now. No blood. That’s not what we do. We help, but never that far. You can’t go that far.”

Tifa pressed her lips together, tightened her arm around her chest. She didn’t even try to say anything. She was just going to take it.

“But I’m glad. I’m _glad_.” Aeris turned her face up to Tifa, then put her hand out and pressed it into Tifa’s knee. Her eyes were fierce and burning, and suddenly that hollowness seemed more like making room. “I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I went that far. I’ll miss the temple, but I’m glad I paid that price. Someone should go that far, someone had to, or else it all just doesn’t mean—and I’m glad it was me.”

That wasn’t what Tifa had thought she’d be taking. She moved a little, backwards, and then she breathed in deep and loosened her arm from around herself. Nothing more than that, but suddenly, the two of them seemed just…together.

“But,” Zack started. And he felt bad about breaking that up, even if Aeris kept smiling and Tifa looked only mildly annoyed, but damn it, he needed to know. “Look, where is he? It’s been a horrible night, and it’s probably not that much better tomorrow, and if we still have to—”

“He’s fine. It’s done, and Cloud is—he’s fine,” Tifa said. She rubbed her hand over the scar on her belly. “He’s…he had to go for a while. Because they can’t stay here all the time, and he’s so new anyway and Jenova hurt him so much when she came out of him. He’ll heal better in the underworld.”

“Where?” Zack stared at her. “Wait, _what_ is he? I thought he was a person, like us. He just had a—complicated situation.”

“He was,” Sephiroth said. He stopped like it was just a pause, like he was going to continue as soon as he got over whatever was making him uncomfortable.

Except he never did. Tifa finally took it up. “He’s a god now,” she said, slow and careful.

“A demon?” Zack demanded.

“No,” Tifa said. She looked disbelieving enough that he believed her. “No, he’s not a demon. But he’s in the underworld because he died—again, just now. He had to give something up too. She was too strong. But we called him back, and we gave him enough…and now he’s a god.”

“I’ll call him,” Sephiroth said. He sounded as if the words were unfamiliar, like he’d just learned them. Tifa looked back at him and he looked at her like he’d looked at Zack, except as a bystander this time Zack noticed the defensive posture. Then he snorted, and settled back against the sarcophagus. “You and I. We’ll call him, later.”

The second time he sounded as if he’d always been certain, and as if his will alone would make it happen. Zack wasn’t sure about it—even if this Cloud wasn’t a demon, dealing with the underworld still wasn’t exactly harmless magic—but everyone else looked fine with it. More than fine, with Angeal finally giving up and resting his head on the ground, and Aeris raising her hand to clasp Tifa’s. At least Tifa was looking at Zack like she was wondering how he felt, even if she obviously wasn’t going to contradict Sephiroth.

“I don’t know if I’m fine, if anyone was wondering,” Zack muttered.

“You’re alive,” Tifa said. She grinned at him like she understood exactly how he felt about that, with all the different layers of rage and guilt and relief and then rage again. “You don’t owe anyone, and you’re alive. You can pay your way. That’s something.”

Zack just turned away. The fires were still going, with a line of red over to the west, and another south of it. They still had to get out of the damn temple, and then…well, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it right now. But she was right. He would have some time. He had a later.

“It’s something,” he said. “Something.”


	2. Aftermath, Aeris and Tifa

The blooms sprouted out of every niche and crack and cranny, turning the brooding stones of the temple into a lush stepped garden. Most of them were about the size of a coin, but here and there a monster reared its crimson head. One giant, nearly as big as Tifa’s palm, hung down from nearly the center of a doorway, brushing everyone who passed under the lintel with its scent.

She’d thought they were bell-shaped, but with this one she could see that one half of the flower overhung the other, like a hood. When she lifted the lip, she saw that the heart was a pale pink, with gold stamens and pistil. 

“I think they’re calling it monk’s habit, or monkshood,” Aeris said. She paused on the other side of the doorway, then ducked under the flower as Tifa drew back. Her hands were dirty at the tips and she had a smear of soot on one cheek. “There are a half a dozen flowers already called that, but…well, I’m not sure there’s a better name.”

“Is it part of your duties to name them?” Tifa asked. She meant it as a joke, but Aeris flinched.

As an apology, Tifa put her hand up and touched the soot on Aeris’ cheek. Aeris flinched again, her eyes wide with surprise, and then offered up an uncertain smile. She leaned into Tifa’s hand as Tifa scrubbed the soot away with her thumb, while her fingertips twitched against Tifa’s coat.

“You don’t have to cleanse the whole temple yourself, you know.” Tifa let her thumb drift along the side of Aeris’ nose, watching the other woman’s face. “They can hold the damn coronation somewhere else.”

“In the palace? Don’t they have to clear that out, too?” Aeris said. Her hand brushed Tifa’s coat again, then softly slipped under it and lightly touched Tifa’s waist. The humor faded from her eyes a little. “I haven’t even been in there, by the Ancients. I should. Reeve’s going to—”

“Reeve has to purge the priesthood anyway. He might as well look for an exorcist while he’s at it.” It came out sharper than Tifa had intended. She didn’t mind Tuesti so much, even if poppetry was closer to Dark magic than not. He hadn’t looked pleased in the least to find out that he was the highest-ranking court official still standing, but he’d taken on the throne and had done a fairly good job of trying to sort things out since.

Maybe Tifa just didn’t like that he’d asked—bribed—them into staying a little longer. Apparently, Hojo hadn’t let Jenova have every single one of his minions and despite that good luck, the ones that were left were beginning to cause trouble. Some of it was demonic and they did need to earn credit with Cloud’s father, but Tifa couldn’t help feeling resentful. They hadn’t even called Cloud back yet and Shinra was already rebuilding.

“Sephiroth looked just as grumpy this morning,” Aeris said. Her hand curled around Tifa’s waist. Somewhere along the line, Tifa had slid her hand into the hair at the back of Aeris’ neck, and Aeris was letting herself loll back into Tifa’s fingers, smiling more genuinely. “He was just here to see the flowers. Someone told him about them, only I think they mixed it up, and he thought Chaos was responsible. He left once I explained.”

“He’s supposed to be healing. The more he puts that off, the longer we have to wait,” Tifa muttered. Not to mention she still felt uneasy around the man, even if she knew he wouldn’t hurt Aeris. “Anyway, I’m not grumpy. I just missed you at breakfast again.”

Aeris dropped her eyes. She almost pulled her hand away, too, but Tifa slid her arm around her just in time. Tifa didn’t tug Aeris any closer, but just held her where she was. If Aeris had tried to get free, she would have let her go, but Aeris just stiffened and drew a deep, long breath. Then another. Then she settled her hand back on Tifa, tentative. When Tifa didn’t do anything, she put her other hand on Tifa’s other side.

“I’m sorry,” Tifa said.

“I’m not. I’m really not.” After a third deep breath, Aeris looked up and her eyes were…they were so brimming with emotion that hurt was there, because overdoing anything hurt. But it was happiness spilling out of her. Happiness and surprise and confusion, but mostly, happiness. “I keep thinking I should be, and when the first flower came out, I did…I wondered, you know, if this was a message. But if it is, I don’t care. They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

She said that like it was so simple, Tifa thought, and then froze as Aeris stretched up and kissed her lightly.

Her eyes closed. She tightened her arm around Aeris and the other woman bent for her, pliant as the flowers bobbing around them. The kiss deepened, grew warm and languorous. They pressed together, Tifa running her hand up and down Aeris’ back. Not fragile, for all that she yielded. There was substance and weight, and determination.

“I like them,” Tifa said when they parted for air. She twisted her fingers in Aeris’ braid. “I like the color.”

“You wouldn’t find anything like them in the mountains.” Aeris ran her lips along Tifa’s jaw, then laid her cheek against the spot.

Tifa smiled. “Unless you come with me.” She kissed Aeris’ surprised face, first on the brow, then on the nose. Then she drifted to the mouth, pulling contemplatively at Aeris’ dress. “I need a partner. Cloud’s a god now. Even when he comes back, he can’t go sorcerer-hunting with me like he used to. And I know Reeve says Midgar needs you, but…”

“They’ve got a saying, did you know? Probably, you’ve been all over,” Aeris said, eyes still shining. She cupped the tops of Tifa’s hips, then leaned into Tifa so her knee slid in between Tifa’s knees. “‘It’s as likely to happen as a flower is to grow out of the Shinra altar.’ Except they can’t say that anymore, now that that _has_ happened.”

She looked so happy. Whatever she said, she’d still lost as much as the rest of them, and Tifa couldn’t blame her for wanting to hold onto evidence that she hadn’t lost her priestess status. Anyway, Vincent was likely to head back to Old Corel, and he’d take the Turks with him—Tifa jerked as a hand grazed her breast. Inexpert, too hard on the curve of it, not hard enough on the nipple, but still, it sent a wave of heat through her as she looked back at Aeris.

“I’m coming with you, silly,” Aeris said. She nipped at Tifa’s lower lip, far too pleased with what that did to Tifa, then shifted herself closer to straddling Tifa’s thigh. “The garden won’t need me _all_ the time, and anyway, Reeve said he’ll find people to look after it. But we’ll have to come back once in a while, to make sure they’re weeding and watering it properly.”

“If you say so,” Tifa sighed, but she was already pushing them into the nearest wall. She didn’t care if Sephiroth or anyone else came wandering through the damn temple. She was done talking.

The flowers crushed under and around Aeris, smudging her skin with pink. She was still so pale, even with being out every day under the sun. Against her, cradling her face, Tifa’s hands were brown as nuts, but Aeris gasped and arched and licked Tifa’s fingers, caressed them with her mouth as if they were just as irresistible.

Tifa didn’t want to use the floor. It was still filthy, both from the fighting and from the generations of corrupt priests who had swept over the stones. So she pinned her knee to the wall and then pulled Aeris up over it, spreading the woman’s legs. Aeris’ robes and skirt got trapped between them, fighting Tifa’s yanks and jerks, but finally she had Aeris’ long white legs bare, her knee and her hand rocking together into the join of them. Aeris moaning in her ear, fervent deep sounds, and her nails digging into Tifa’s shoulder so Tifa had to slide her own hand into her trousers, push and press with her fingertips as they hitched against each other.

It was enough. Clumsy, rough, no angle at all and barely a fingertip into Aeris, let alone herself but Tifa remembered the pretty flush of Aeris’ cunt the night before, remembered how the skin there was warm cream, with sable hair that had made Aeris flush to see, when Tifa had pulled her head down, made her watch—and it was enough.

Aeris murmured apologies as they shuddered against the wall, petals drifting around them like something out of a ballad, and stroked a late hand down the middle of Tifa’s belly to meet Tifa’s fingers drawing back up. Grinning, Tifa kissed her mouth, then picked a petal off Aeris’ thigh.

“I like them,” she said, sticking the petal to Aeris’ cheek. It held for a moment, bright scarlet next to green eyes, then fluttered away. “A whole mountainside of red. I’d like to see that.”

“I’ll show you,” Aeris said, pulling her down for another kiss.


	3. Aftermath, Angeal and Sephiroth

Angeal found him in the temple library, which, with the exception of some bloodstains on the threshold, had escaped the fighting. In fact, it looked just as they’d left it the last time they’d been in Midgar, Sephiroth storming white-faced and furious out of the room while Angeal tried desperately to stop him.

The memory still made Angeal’s blood run cold. He stopped just inside the doorway, looking around at the shelves of books. It’d always seemed dark and oppressive in the library, despite a vaulted ceiling and no expenses spared on mage lights. The lack of windows, save for the narrow ventilation slits near the ceiling, and the crammed, groaning shelves, placed so closely together that Angeal always had the feeling that the one behind him was about to topple over and crush him.

And Sephiroth reading late into the night at one of the scribes’ desks, surrounded by stacks of books. It wasn’t quite the same as Angeal’s memory. Some idiot had left old uniforms in their rooms, but Sephiroth had opted for a loose grey robe, with the sleeves rolled up above the thick bandages swathing his forearms, over equally loose black trousers. His hair was tied back into a tail that had slipped over the shoulder farthest from Angeal, leaving bare a network of healing scars on Sephiroth’s neck and chest. He moved fluidly, but far more slowly than necessary.

“If you’re from Genesis, I’ll deal with him in the morning,” Sephiroth said, turning another page. “If Miss Gainsborough, I appreciate the inquiry but I have eaten sufficiently today.”

“Rufus Shinra? Tuesti?” Angeal offered. He came up to Sephiroth’s side, forgoing a nearby empty chair in favor of leaning against the desk. “Well, how about Zack?”

Sephiroth paused, his finger drifting across an illustration limned in gold leaf. Then he lifted his hand, flicked his tongue over his index finger, and eased apart another cracked vellum page. “Is he still insisting on those idiotic nicknames?”

“Yes.” Angeal picked up one of the books lying on the desk. He opened it and Sephiroth’s eyes slid over to him; a slip of paper fluttered at one edge and he turned to it, careful to press the paper further into the spine.

“Then Genesis can kill him.” Sephiroth returned to his own book.

Demonology, dark magic, the afterlife. About what Angeal had been expecting. He put down the book and picked up the next, and found that Hojo’s spidery script annotated the margins. A sharp wave of disgust went through him and he dropped the book, then cursed as a small cloud of dust resulted.

“I’m fine, Angeal,” Sephiroth finally said. He rested his hands on the sides of his book, his brows knitting. “I am not…I am not in danger of losing my mind, or of rushing off like a headstrong fool.”

“I never said you were.” His nose still stinging, Angeal stepped back from the desk and waved his hand to clear the air. Various places of his body ached and protested, but they’d been three times worse this morning.

He was, he thought, grateful simply for the ability to speak again. It had taken some time for them to find him enough cracked summons and other magical artifacts to mend his jaw and he still wasn’t accustomed to the painless way it worked around each word. Surprising, considering he was only a few weeks removed from two years of silence.

“Then why—”

“I never blamed you for that. You know, don’t you?” Angeal said, rubbing his jaw. He looked around the room again, at all the accumulated knowledge of the Shinra priesthood. Somewhere in here Hojo had found the tools for his schemes, had developed his methods for their creation. “Honestly, Sephiroth, if it’d been me who had found those books first, I don’t know that I would have reacted any better. And you know Genesis didn’t, and he had them after you.”

A brief smile illuminated Sephiroth’s face. He was a beautiful man in any setting, but in this room, with the latest wounds still raw and red on him, he looked like something out of the books sitting in front of them. Stark, uncompromising lines, beauty as much in the force of them as in their fineness.

“I realize that injuring my health only delays Cloud’s return,” he said after a long silence. He reached for his book, then sighed and splayed his hand over the pages. “I am not used to being a pawn, Angeal.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” Angeal shrugged off Sephiroth’s sharp look. The hurt, he met with a steady gaze of his own. He wasn’t Genesis, who spat acid at the most petty things, but he wasn’t a sycophant either. He tried to be a good friend and good friends hurt when no one else would. “It’s not our fault what they did to us, but none of us ever did try to run. Or to rebel, until this time. You don’t think I’m kicking myself over it? I didn’t know, you didn’t know, but what we did know, that should’ve been enough. And we didn’t do anything. Tifa and Cloud, they were kids when their lives fell apart, but they did more than three fully-trained generals.”

“We thought we had a home,” Sephiroth said. He shifted in his chair, twisting oddly, and at first Angeal thought it was to ease an injury. But then Sephiroth reached out, stiff and awkward, and pushed a chair at Angeal. “I don’t…I did not mean to ask you and Genesis to stay, ever. If I gave you that impression, I am sorry.”

Angeal pushed the chair away, but stepped back up to the desk. He caught Sephiroth’s wrist before the other man could withdraw his arm. “Of course you did, in your damn stiff-necked way, and of course we stayed, idiot. That’s not what I meant. I just—fuck. I’m tired. I hate a lot of how we got here, but I don’t hate the company. I’ll never hate that, all right?”

Sephiroth looked at Angeal’s grip on his arm. He shifted in his chair again and this time it probably was an injury. Then he looked up at Angeal, pulling back a few strands from his face with his free hand. He was annoyed, confused, and, Angeal was thankful to see, convinced, however reluctantly.

“Anyway, now I don’t think that that’s what you meant.” Angeal released Sephiroth’s arm, then lifted his hand and touched a laceration on Sephiroth’s jaw. It looked fresher than the others and the way Sephiroth’s muscles tensed under his fingers confirmed it. “What did you mean?”

“Tuesti has a point when he says that we’re all at risk from Hojo’s remaining servants,” Sephiroth muttered. “Half of Hojo’s rooms in the palace were ruined by the thing he left in his wardrobe.”

The light wasn’t good so Angeal pushed his thumb under Sephiroth’s chin and tilted it. There was another cut just under the first. Nothing serious, but their baseline was so low right now that even that sort of wound lingered. “I don’t care what it was, I know you killed it, and Tuesti might be right but he needs to know we’re not his to command these days. Stop evading me.”

Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed, but he let Angeal lower his chin. “I am supposed to be the best general in Shinra’s history,” he said slowly, carefully. “And I have been repeatedly outmaneuvered, sidelined, and disabled. No—I understand that there were specific circumstances involved. But I do not…I do not understand _those_ circumstances, not fully, and until I do, I am an inadequate—I cannot _help_ , do you understand? I offered myself, but all I can provide at the moment is a _burden_.”

He refused to not meet Angeal’s eyes. Of course. Angeal had his pride—his honor, drawled the little voice Genesis had insinuated into his head—but sometimes he looked at Sephiroth and he saw a glacier. An endless stretch of ice, taller than anything humans could build, grinding down mountains in its wake, and then fracturing when it reached the sea.

“He’s coming back,” Angeal finally said. He brought his other hand up to cradle Sephiroth’s face.

“That’s not the point,” Sephiroth said sharply.

They’d done their best, too, but Angeal managed to stop himself before that slipped out. Why everyone thought he was the one who was good at speaking to people, he’d never know. He could read Sephiroth better than most, true, but that didn’t translate into finding the right words.

He ran his thumb along the cut on Sephiroth’s jaw, absentminded, trying to think of something, and nearly dropped his hands when he felt Sephiroth incline his head ever so slightly. After a moment, Angeal repeated the gesture, watching the skin around Sephiroth’s eyes tighten, the flex of Sephiroth’s mouth. Then he slid his hands down, one to Sephiroth’s shoulder, the other behind the man’s head, and pulled Sephiroth forward. A sigh gusted over his chest, a bare moment before Sephiroth let his weight settle into Angeal.

“The point is,” Angeal said, still fumbling for words. “The point is, there’s more than one of us. I need to learn, Genesis needs to. And this is war, this is battle. This is what we were always good at. It’s a different field, but war is war.”

Sephiroth laughed against him. “That is not what I was expecting from you.”

“You need to stop reading these.” Angeal nodded at the books, even though Sephiroth couldn’t see them. He felt the man tense anyway. “They’ll be here in the morning, and there aren’t any priests to hide or steal or alter then now. And anyway, this part is going to be practical, at the end of the day. It’d probably be quicker to talk to Tifa.”

For another moment Sephiroth let Angeal support him. Then he drew himself up, tidying his appearance with a few efficient gestures. “I’ve the impression she still is skeptical of our involvement. And she’s well within her rights.”

“She’s pragmatic. She doesn’t want us running around getting into trouble because we’re ignorant, either. And she wants Cloud to be happy,” Angeal said. He kept his hand on Sephiroth’s shoulder. “That part is going to be harder, and frankly, I don’t have the slightest idea how to go about it.”

Sephiroth regarded him for a moment, then looked away, at the book on the desk. He reached out and slid his fingers under the edge of the cover, then flipped it shut. Then he rose from the chair. “He comes back first. That’s how.”

“Then come to bed. Genesis is already sleeping,” Angeal said. “When I left him, anyway.”

Sephiroth snorted, still looking at the books. He put his hand on the edge of the desk, then curled his fingers, tightening his grip until his knuckles whitened. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed himself away and allowed Angeal to draw him out of the library.


	4. Prequel, Vincent Valentine, Rufus and Lazard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from a Rufus Shinra-Lazard Deusericus character arc I ended up excising from the main story to keep the plot moving, once I realized I was heading over a hundred pages in Word.

They were out there for three hours. Three hours, chained to iron posts in the middle of a sulfurous wasteland, after a six-hour ride in the crudest wagon possible and, before that, a week or so of imprisonment. Three days for the priests to torture them in the name of discovering what foul demon with whom they’d allied themselves, two for a farce of a trial and then some unspecified period during which they were supposed to reflect on their sins and repent. Which would not have spared them their sentence, although in his mercy, their great father the king would have had it commuted to the fire.

He _had_ come to see them off. In a miscalculation, Rufus had deemed it better to meet his fate with dignity and had coldly informed his father that he would not repent for a crime he had not committed, and if his father could do no better than that, when minimal interest and effort would have turned up—the guards had struck him, then, and he had spent the first two hours of the wagon ride too dazed to care about their transport.

“If I’d screamed out that he was a lunatic and possessed, at least someone might have remembered it for the next coup,” he said. His voice, weak and scratched though it was, seemed to echo across the desolate landscape.

His head still hurt. They had chained his hands behind his back and it strained his shoulder, which they had put back in improperly after the first round of torture. He didn’t look at his legs, and tried to move his ribs as little as possible when he breathed because at least three were broken.

“There had better be one,” Rufus finally said. “He’s not even our father, you realize. I’m not quite certain whether he’s being—controlled or simply replaced, but the flesh—damn it, Deusericus, I know you aren’t dead yet.”

Lazard didn’t answer, but just laid in a broken sprawl besides Rufus, only the chains connecting the manacles around his wrists holding him up. He rocked away when Rufus forced one knee into bumping his head. Then his weight swung him back into place, heavy and still against Rufus’ leg.

“Damn it.” Rufus stiffly lifted his head and looked at the sky. Overcast, unfortunately, and it was neither very warm nor very cold. Exposure wasn’t likely to kill them until well into the night.

If the wild beasts failed to come before that. Of course, they should have come already, considering all the blood in the air, but nothing yet about this had arranged itself to Rufus’ convenience. At least—consistency—at least—

He was going to die.

It wasn’t painful to realize that, or even humiliating. It simply…settled on him, like a coat of iron mail, inexorable, and he breathed through his smashed lips and stared at the sky and knew his death.

“That was so foolish of you,” he said quietly. “Why even bother? You knew already, didn’t you? Those slum instincts of yours.”

When he lowered his head, Lazard of course was still refusing to respond. However, there was another man with them. Standing barely a foot from Rufus, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. At first Rufus’ strained eyes thought him a hallucination, but then the man went to one knee and the edge of his red robe brushed over Rufus’ leg.

He moved like blood, flowing slowly and steadily. His hair was black and streaming over his shoulders, and he had a kind of close-fitting, clawed metal gauntlet on one arm. And red eyes, and pale skin, and he was beautiful in the way that a great cat bringing down its prey was beautiful.

“Rufus Shinra,” he said. “I am Vincent Valentine.”

“I know the name,” Rufus said after a long moment. “A Turk, a long time ago. You died in one of the temples.”

Valentine simply waited.

“Who do you bear?” Rufus asked.

“The Galian Beast enjoys your anger. Chaos would foster your vengeance,” Valentine said tonelessly. He looked from Rufus to Lazard, then back at Rufus, his metal gauntlet clicking as he slowly curled the claws. “They will require that you give yourself over to them, in return.”

“I’m aware.” Rufus twisted his hands in the chains, then grimaced as somehow, despite all the other pains, a fresh stab made itself felt. He almost indulged and kneed Lazard in the head again. “I recognize the names, and I am familiar with their prices.”

Valentine was neither impressed nor pleased. Nor was he entirely lacking in emotion, although the flicker that crossed his face was too swift for Rufus to identify. “I can also offer you a quicker death than this.”

“You?” A flare of indignation temporarily drowned the pain. “Don’t _pity_ me, Valentine. I am still Shinra.”

“Then you can die as one,” Valentine said, without malice. “Or you can live, but you will no longer have that honor.”

“You may be well-versed in demons, Valentine, but you’re no expert on my family,” Rufus snapped. “I am who I am, and no power in this world or any other world can change that.”

Valentine drew himself back and for a moment Rufus thought the man was leaving. But no, he was merely setting his arm on his knee. His lips curved but it was no smile that disturbed the somber planes of his face. 

“You are what you are,” he said. He tilted his head. “I offered not because I pity you, but because you must know that there is a choice.”

“I know,” Rufus said sharply. His knee jostled into Lazard and there was no resistance, not even tension in the muscles. He did not look down, but he did lean his leg into the other man. Lazard was still warm, still breathing, but barely. “I want something else besides vengeance.”

Nothing stirred in Valentine’s face, but his voice grew unnaturally deep, with a current of amusement that did not belong to his stony eyes. “You wish to bargain?”

“I wish to—to share an opportunity to cast your net more widely. I’ve never known a demon to refuse influence,” Rufus said slowly.

Valentine glanced down. Rufus did not.

“He should choose,” Valentine—and only Valentine—said.

“Does he look in any shape to? Besides, with my father clearly disabled, I’m the true head of the family. I can speak for him.” Rufus clenched his fists against his back, hearing a sudden rasp in Lazard’s breath. The man wasn’t waking, but quite the opposite. “Damn it, I’ll give you—I’ll pay for that, too. I understand nothing is free.”

Valentine did not move, and Lazard’s breathing grew even more labored.

“ _Please_ ,” Rufus hissed. He was grimacing as he did, hating the way it crawled out of him, but he leaned forward anyway. “Please.”

For a moment longer, Valentine was still. Then he nodded once, curtly. He reached out and Rufus inhaled sharply—but the man pulled Lazard up by the throat. Rufus opened his mouth and then Valentine was pressed up against him, forcing him back against the pole, black and red filling Rufus’ vision and flesh in his mouth and blood and death and fire.


	5. Prequel or Missing Scene, Tseng, Lazard and Reno, off-stage Rufus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me, I was so tempted to side-track into Valentine and Turk shenanigans. The idea of Chaos!Vincent having a whole harem of vamped Turks going out and preying on the population, and then how Rufus and Lazard would relate to Vincent-Vincent versus Chaos!Vincent...but needs must. It didn't serve the main plotline.

“It’s like you’re not happy to see me, boss,” Reno said, snaking his way up Tseng’s side. He smelled like death and raw wool, and the fingernails he slid over Tseng’s chest left flecks of dried blood in their wake.

Lazard leaned against the bedpost and watched. Two days without hunting and Tseng was squirming against Reno, his hands twisting in the manacles that kept them pinned to the headboard. His eyes crossed Lazard’s, then disappeared behind Reno’s rat’s nest hair. Reno arched his shoulders like a cat, rolling out his back till his ass plumped provocatively up towards Lazard. _He’d_ been feeding well, keeping an eye on the knifing war that’d broken out among the wool merchants. To the point that the extra blood was probably burning holes through his veins; they weren’t intended to keep it all to themselves, after all.

Tseng wrenched his head around Reno again, staring at Lazard with exhausted, half-glazed, still questioning eyes. Stoic as ever, even with Reno laving his neck, running blunt teeth up and down the muscles as if Tseng wouldn’t eventually get out of the chains. And then the two of them would be at it, testing each other till half the house was destroyed and they’d cut and beaten each other back into their customary positions. Sometimes Lazard wondered what his brother was thinking, pushing them like that. They were loyal enough to follow him past death, so what was the point of breaking them now?

And then, sometimes Lazard wondered why he even had such thoughts. His brother’s guard. “They’re not back yet,” he told Tseng.

The other man nodded, then jerked, his chin caught still up in the air. Reno splayed his hand across Tseng’s belly, his head buried in the curve of the man’s neck. His fingers inched their way along a long scratch, circled briefly about Tseng’s bellybutton, and then dipped to fondle Tseng’s cock. Rufus had left that wrapped in kid leather, so thin and soft that Lazard could almost make out the strain of veins underneath it. 

Lazard pressed his lips together, then grimaced as he smelled fresh blood. He’d eaten regularly enough, no more and no less than necessary. His skin still itched, too tight, begging to be rent open. Earlier in the day he’d given in and fed a tired-looking Cissnei, but that hadn’t been nearly the type of relief he was craving. And who knew when Vincent would return, worn and hungry and haunted, resentful of the urges that drew them together. This long away, he always came back reluctant to drag them down and set his teeth to their skin and—Lazard closed his eyes. Breathed deeply.

It didn’t help the craving. Curse of serving a demon—you _needed_ to serve. Lazard opened his eyes, then sat down on the bed and pulled Reno off of Tseng. Reno fought a little, twisting his neck under Lazard’s hand, and then slumped into a half-curl by Tseng’s hip, all fever-bright eyes and feral smile, at the dig of Lazard’s thumb and forefinger into the arteries. He’d left small red marks all over the side of Tseng’s neck and shoulder, small indentations, unbroken skin, and Tseng was still silent but his knees hitched off the mattress when Lazard set himself between them, still gripping Reno’s neck.

“C’mon,” Reno said. He craned his head to lick at the underside of Lazard’s wrist. “Not your fault Rufus pissed him off.”

“Please don’t talk about my brother right now,” Lazard said. His anger slipped out, roughening his voice.

He hadn’t meant to but Reno grinned and then let Lazard push his head onto Tseng’s belly, whimpering low in the throat when Lazard ran a thumbnail under his jaw. They didn’t really bow to him, Lazard knew that, and he didn’t want their fealty either, but he wasn’t too proud to admit the low press of heat in his groin when Reno closed his eyes, turned his face into Lazard’s arm.

“Just feed him already.” Lazard shoved Reno up a few inches by the neck, then released him. Something brushed Lazard’s shoulder and he looked over, then, after a moment’s thought, wrapped his hand around Tseng’s thigh, holding it where he could lean his weight against it.

Soft wet sounds made him look back up. He watched Reno swing his leg over Tseng’s chest, pushing knees up till they were sliding under Tseng’s shoulders, actually nudging them off the bed—it’d make the reckoning later worse, if he let Reno. He could see the shift of Tseng’s hair on the sheets, riding up as Reno lifted the man’s head. Hear the grunt and then muffled sucking.

Lazard sank down onto one arm, Tseng’s thigh pressing more purposefully into his shoulder. He touched a half-circle of teeth marks on Tseng’s other thigh and Tseng began to rub his leg against him, hips rolling and flexing, so Lazard almost bit him.

Instead Lazard wrapped his hand around Tseng’s cock. The leather sheath around it ran from just behind the head down to the root, lacing up on the underside, with little weights clipped at regular intervals to the lacing. A buckled strap went around the base, and then another, slightly wider one circled the base of Tseng’s scrotum. The second strap was discolored, one part darker than the rest, and Lazard stared at it for a few seconds before realizing the discoloration was from a mouth. His brother’s mouth, presumably.

Reno moaned. His head was thrown back and as Lazard looked up at him, he bent backwards until he was grinning at Lazard. “Shit, his mouth. You want up here?”

Lazard’s hand jerked from Tseng’s cock to the air. Reno shoved up his ass to meet it but Lazard had already caught himself, forced his hand down to the bed. He blinked hard, then reached out and pushed Reno in the back instead. “I said _feed_.”

“I _am_ ,” Reno complained, but he twisted his hips. Let Lazard see the spit painting his cock before he leaned against the headboard, pressing Tseng’s face into the inside of his thigh.

Reno bucked once, his eyes widening, pupils as round and empty as a hashish addict. He cursed as his shoulder ran into the headboard, the words falling slack and slurred as his fangs slid out. His free hand tore ragged lines into the sheets.

Tseng was still quiet, though he should’ve been desperate for blood. It—more than annoyed Lazard, for reasons he didn’t want to think on. He stared down at Tseng’s hips, which shifted only a little, still controlled, and then he caught one of the weights that swung from Tseng’s cock and twisted.

It came away, after a sharp tug and a hiss from Tseng. Lazard went down the lacings, letting each weight drop into the morass of twisted sheets under them, and then he pulled out the laces and the straps, deliberately rough. Tseng started to slurp, sloppy, and then, when Lazard took the head of Tseng’s cock into his mouth, finally groaned. Lazard held the head for a moment, swallowing twice, and then let the third swallow drag the rest of the cock into his mouth. Tseng wrenched his hips up and Lazard heard Reno’s curses sharpen, glimpsed a bloody face before Reno jammed his leg back over it.

And then Tseng was struggling in earnest, pulling up his knees, trying to crush Lazard’s head between them. Lazard shoved at one with his hand, then slapped the thigh when Tseng brought it up again. Tseng tried a third time and Lazard finally pushed his hand under Tseng, pushed apart Tseng’s buttocks and rooted around with two fingers till he found the end of the plug he knew his brother had left. He pushed it with his knuckles and Tseng’s legs fell apart. Then he kept twisting it, pulling it out and pushing it in, tilting it with his fingers while his thumb dragged up and down the taut skin behind Tseng’s scrotum. Unnecessary. His brother had likely done the same. He didn’t want to think about it and he did, and then Tseng pushed hard at Lazard’s shoulder with his foot.

Lazard shrugged it off and pulled out the plug, substituting his fingers, and then swallowed Tseng’s come. He pushed himself up on his free arm, still sucking, milking the man’s cock, letting Tseng convulse around his motionless fingers. Tseng was soft and still for several seconds before Lazard finally lifted his head.

“Hey,” Reno said, and kissed Lazard. Lazy, his tongue just flicking Lazard’s lip before he opened his mouth. He had blood on the inside and when Lazard pulled back, Reno twined his hands in Lazard’s shirt and tried to pull him up the bed. “Hey, strip already.”

Tseng still had streaks of blood over his face, and when Lazard reached down to push Reno off, his hand slipped on the blood running down Reno’s thigh. He lifted his hand and Reno leaned forward and licked him clean, dropping an arm around Lazard’s waist.

“I don’t need to,” Lazard said. 

He worked his arm out from between them and Reno immediately slid his grip up to just under Lazard’s shoulders, slinging his legs around Lazard’s hips so the blood began soaking through Lazard’s shirt. His erection was stiff against Lazard’s belly. “So what?” Reno said. His weight was pulling hard towards the bed. “Come on. We’re all fucking mad about it.”

Reno smiled at Lazard again, less feral and more…bitter. He touched the side of Lazard’s face, just under one eye, and then twisted his body somehow so his weight tipped them down, Reno on his back on the bed and his ass pushing firmly into Lazard’s groin.

“Come on, I know you like me for this,” Reno said. He dropped his shoulders and put his head back, showing his throat. Pushed his bare forearm up against Lazard’s jaw. “Or Tseng’s still nice and loose. Probably feels like fucking silk, not that I’d know, but I fucking well want to _watch_.”

Tseng was lying up against the headboard on his side, still panting. He pushed himself up when Lazard reached for the manacles, pressed his open mouth to the side of Lazard’s neck as the chain connecting them to the headboard snapped.

“I don’t need to,” Lazard told him. “Whatever my brother told you.”

“I want to,” Tseng said. He smiled with his lips shut, pushed his manacles up into Lazard’s slack hand and then pulled their hands down to Reno’s cock. His mouth fit itself back to Lazard’s jaw. “Please.”

He didn’t say please to Rufus. He knew that. Lazard wanted to hit him. Tseng’s mouth inched towards his throat and Lazard reached up, took him by the arm, shoved him down. Rested over him for a moment, while Reno began worming his hands under Lazard’s clothing, and then pinned Tseng’s hips and bit his brother’s man on the left thigh. He let Tseng hiss, raised his head, and then bit again, higher up, without healing the first bite. Tseng’s fingers slid into his hair, but Lazard added two bites on the other thigh before he let himself be pulled up, slotted between Tseng’s legs, Reno’s searching fingers drawing his cock up the crease of Tseng’s ass.

“You’re not doing this for me,” Lazard said, sinking into Tseng. He felt the metal of the manacles at the back of his neck, bent under their weight. Kissed Tseng on the side of the mouth when he tried to speak, so instead he stiffened and stared at Lazard. No, they knew. “I don’t think I care today.”

Tseng tried to speak again, but Lazard stopped up his mouth. Reno knew better than to even try, the wisdom of a subordinate, no matter his flaunted disobedience. He settled up against the headboard, his hands between his splayed legs, and just watched. Readying the report for his brother, Lazard thought, and then he gave himself over. It never mattered whether he cared or not, after all.


	6. Missing Scene, Tseng, Rufus and Lazard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't even plan for the Rufus/Lazard vibes. They just happened.

Lazard stumbled a few more steps down the hall, then slumped into a doorway and pressed his brow against the cool wood. The insides of his thighs were turning from wet to sticky, and his muscles were going to stiffen badly if he didn’t keep moving, but he couldn’t quite muster up the will.

“There you are,” sighed Rufus. He leaned out of the next doorway over. “Come here.”

“You can send Tseng to my room with the necessary—”

Rufus’ jaw hardened. “Get in here before I have Tseng drag you in. Of all the…it’s not the time for it, so swallow your damn pride.”

“My throat’s not in any condition for it,” Lazard said dryly, but he forced himself off the door.

He did manage to slip past Rufus’ incessantly probing hands before he collapsed. From his perspective it was a few feet short of the bed, but Tseng was there and that explained how he landed on the mattress anyway. The other man rolled him up against the headboard, pushed up his robe and spread his legs with a briskness that almost kept him from flinching. Lazard dug his hands into the bed, then reluctantly convinced his knees to slide under him so Tseng could wipe down his thighs.

“When did he change?” A weight settled onto the bed near Lazard’s head. Then Rufus was picking at the soaked fabric stuck to Lazard’s back, peeling it off the half-clotted lacerations. “Damn it.”

Next was always the bare wrist by Lazard’s face. Lazard turned his head into the pillow, then pushed his arm under his forehead. It raised him enough to breathe while blocking out Rufus.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Rufus said. “The fair’s just opened and there’s too much attention. We can’t hunt until nightfall.”

“Tseng, I’m going to kill him,” Lazard muttered.

“If that’s how you have to feed,” Rufus answered, just as irritated.

The cloth dabbing at Lazard’s legs disappeared. A moment later, the door to the bath shut.

“I’m going to kill _him_ ,” Rufus said after a moment, conversationally. “As if anyone else in this household needed to develop an attitude.”

Lazard ignored him, preoccupied with letting his legs slowly slide back to the bed. He was tired. He hurt. He was starving, and Rufus’ pulse, jumping with anger, was an insistent drumming in his ear, and he knew Rufus knew it. And he knew how this would end, how it always ended. Once he might have had good intentions, if nothing else, but now he had no illusions. Only a thin, inadequate resistance to accepting his situation.

“You should.” Rufus touched Lazard’s back, just two fingertips on one of the few uninjured places, and then withdrew his hand. “Must we fight over this?”

“Did you have to drag me into it?” Lazard muttered.

Uncharacteristically, Rufus was silent. He had a list of ready responses to that question and was hardly shy in citing to it, but when Lazard raised his head, the other man wasn’t even looking at him. Instead Rufus was sitting straight up against the headboard and staring fixedly at the far wall, one hand opening and closing on the bed.

“You sent Tseng to me,” Rufus finally said. He glanced over, then snorted and let his posture slip slightly. “You don’t remember? When—”

Now Lazard did. It was comedy of the darkest hue, the way the two of them sometimes aligned their thoughts. They hadn’t met until…well, Rufus hadn’t reached his majority in years yet, but he had certainly been an adult in all other ways by then. And even after that, their interest in each other hadn’t been for friendly purposes. “You had him following me. Presumably to assassinate me as soon as you were certain I’d lost the army.”

“You had him warn me.” Rufus’ fingers dug so deeply into the mattress that Lazard could see threads in the sheet snapping.

“One of the priests let slip that they were sending a group to you,” Lazard said. He pushed himself up on his forearms. “I shouted at Tseng. I wasn’t thinking. And it certainly made no difference to you.”

“If you say so.” Then Rufus turned and reached for something. A knife, which he unsheathed and rested against his arm. He looked meditatively at the blade. “I still question why Tseng didn’t learn of the arrest orders earlier.”

Lazard paused, then simply pushed the hair back from his face. That was unfair of Rufus, and they were long since past the point of enemies, all of them, but Lazard still felt no urgent need to defend the Turks.

“This isn’t part of my vengeance,” Rufus finally said, glancing at Lazard. “No matter what you might think.”

“I think you’re angry about what I did, whatever name you want to give that,” Lazard said. “I made a mistake.”

“Oh, clearly.” Rufus raised the blade, then sighed and tossed it aside. He let his head fall back against the headboard. “I didn’t know he’d arrest the Turks after us. I didn’t know until Valentine brought me back to that field. At the time I only knew of you.”

“Don’t tell me you were lonely,” Lazard said.

Rufus clenched his jaw, then pulled his shoulders forward. He had still been very young when he’d pledged himself to Chaos, though he had learned well the tricks of burying that beneath arrogance and ruthlessness. But he looked away, then down at his hands, and the lines of his face were still so very young. “You forgot afraid,” he said, as if it was a contest. “And you shouted at Tseng, and then at the trial you said nothing against me.”

Lazard rolled onto his hip and pulled himself into a half-sitting position. He meant to get off the bed, get away from this conversation, but instead he found himself facing Rufus. They still were at odds with each other. There was no fight for leadership now—Valentine favored neither of them, while the man’s various demons preferred whoever was most willing to serve their goals, a pursuit Lazard was more than happy to leave to others. Nor was Lazard foolish enough to believe that he could accomplish anything but unending pain if he truly rebelled against Chaos. His life now was…largely undesirable, but he was not a martyr and Chaos would never permit him to simply die. But Lazard couldn’t surrender to his circumstances either, whereas Rufus had always seemed, if not content with the bargain he’d made, to believe that it was worth the price.

“I did what I thought I had to,” Rufus eventually added. “I didn’t give a damn what you thought about it. But then, did you really want to have me escape and you not?”

“I thought about that, when we were awaiting trial.” Lazard smiled thinly at Rufus’ sharp, intent look. “No. I didn’t take any pleasure in what they did you, but you deserved it no less than I did.”

“Which is to say, not at all. Oh, I know what you think.” Rufus smiled back at Lazard, the contempt back in his eyes. “There. I begged Chaos for you, brother. You deserved no less.”

Lazard swallowed, slowly. His throat ached, a pain that went deep into his gut and then nestled there with prickling roots threading out. He had always had good intentions. Even when he’d learned of the road down which Hojo had led, when he’d looked out at the soldiers who reported him for the first time and had known the true creditor for the power they represented…he had meant well. Jenova had not been a living demon, not anymore, and the power was no more than the use they made of it, he had thought.

And he had never thought himself better. Only more aware.

“Come here,” he said quietly. He nearly pushed himself away when Rufus turned a hard, surprised stare on him, but twisted his hands into the sheets and held. “No, I feel no different. But you asked for me, and I am still here.”

Rufus regarded him for a moment longer. Then he pushed himself up, bending his head aside. He inhaled sharply as Lazard’s mouth touched his shoulder, but made no sound when Lazard bit down.


	7. Aftermath, Rufus, Lazard and Vincent

Vincent’s bargain ends when Hojo dies.

He had no bargain at the beginning. Lucrecia had believed that they could extract the power of a demon held within a summons without summoning the demon itself, and so they had had no safeguards. They had been hurried, working with the knowledge that Hojo could turn them over to the king at any time as traitors, and now, after all the death, Vincent can acknowledge that they had been fools, too. He had loved her, but he had not loved her for her morals. Nor she for his. They had wanted happiness for themselves only.

The demons could come and go through him, so long as his body remained intact, and they would of course lend their power to that goal. But they could come and go _only_ through him, and they could not hold him forever. And when they were not there, he could throw himself into near-fatal fights. Let himself be locked up. Render himself unfit for their return. When Cloud and Tifa had woken him, he had not lashed out at them only because he had thought Hojo dead in the same accident that had given him to the demons, and they had told him he was wrong.

They had enlightened him as to his mistake, and from there he had learned that it had been no accident, that Hojo had arranged it and had been well-protected at the time. So he had bargained, and in return he had refrained from thwarting the demons’ passage through him.

But his bargain ends, and he still lives. Chaos is quiet inside, the Galian Beast is quiet inside, they are all quiet inside, but he is not so foolish as to think them gone. That had not been the bargain.

They take him off the roof with them, Tifa and her Ancient priestess, Lucrecia’s son and his companions. He is given royal chambers, is washed and has his wounds treated, and the least injured of Chaos’ acolytes nurses him. He should refuse. He should turn over and bury himself where the demons cannot reach, and sleep.

He does not. He is tired, he thinks at first. His vengeance on Hojo had changed so much by the end, involved such greater things than the past sins of a single man. And then, he thinks, he has committed further sins. He has debts to Cloud and should at least await the man—the god’s return, to settle them.

He is used to living again. Vincent has not welcomed it, has only seen it as a necessity, but nevertheless he has had to exert himself. He has taken an interest, and the interest has survived the bargain.

The demons murmur at him. They too wish to live, and they are willing to bargain again. He is a strong vessel, it seems, and they are no closer to reversing the link Lucrecia had forged between them. He suits them. He is not, and has never been, a peaceful man, although he has no taste for the destruction of all. And neither do they, say the demons. A world empty of life is empty of chaos, after all.

They make him an offer, and then they withdraw and he rises from his bed. It is a grand suite, with several bedrooms off the master, and in one he finds the two Shinra heirs.

“Valentine.” Rufus is smeared with ashes. They flake in his hair, dust the shirt he is pulling off, form grey crusts under his nails. “It’s been three days. You’re a tardy collector. I do wonder how Chaos stands it.”

Lazard sits on the bed, a scrap of cloth in his hands. He has a streak of ash in his hair, and the cloth carries several heavy, bejeweled rings. They jingle and roll as he speaks. “We were burning what was left of our father.”

“Those are my mother’s,” Rufus says. His voice sharpens and he draws nearer to his brother. “We turned over all the necessary regalia to Tuesti. What was recoverable.”

They mistake his interest. Chaos does not reign over the results of his disorder and so does not care; Vincent has never, even in his life as a mortal guard to the king, coveted that sort of wealth. 

“Well, then.” Rufus drops his shirt on the floor. He appears calm, his eyes meet Vincent’s and his back is straight, but he is afraid.

He is always afraid. It does not bind him, nor still his hand when he offers payment, but it underscores everything he says and does. The smell of it makes Chaos laugh in Vincent’s head, low and lazy. _You have not come out so badly, with such company_ Chaos says.

Vincent addresses Lazard instead. “You have a choice.”

Lazard looks up in surprise, then turns his head when Rufus starts. He does not fully look at the other man, nor does he linger over the jewels he sets on the bed. He has been afraid, he is afraid, but it is a different quality to Rufus’ fear. He is understanding where Rufus is knowing, braced where Rufus is anticipatory. Sometimes Chaos murmurs in admiration. _A good host, if circumstances were different._ And then the demon laughs again. _But let us not ruin a rare gift, now. I am not so greedy as some of my brethren._

“Has the bargain been fulfilled?” Lazard says at last. “My father is dead, but neither of us is free to succeed him.”

“Vengeance was requested, not recompense,” Vincent tells him.

“Oh.” Lazard smiles. It is rueful, strangely devoid of caution. Behind him Rufus is a still, coiled spring. “I wasn’t aware there was a distinction our masters respected.”

Rufus moves then, dropping his body against the bedpost. He presses into the wooden column as if to splinter it, while his eyes stare murder into someone else within Vincent’s body. “I was the one who offered.”

“You offer what can be taken from you, Shinra,” Vincent says. “There is no negotiation about that.”

He watches the man whiten. They may know, when they make the bargain, but so many never guess at the true weight of that knowledge. They cannot guess, not accurately, for the weight will grow and decline and grow again, will change endlessly until the day of accounting, and then it will bear in full upon them. But some may at least understand that. Rufus, it seems, has not been one of them.

“I always was told that once the request was filled, our souls would be dragged into the underworld for endless torment. There’s a mural in the palace that illustrates as much,” Lazard says thoughtfully. He absently rubs one hand over his knee. “I’d actually forgotten about the damn thing until we came upon it earlier today. Chaos is in it. Surprisingly true to life.”

“The demons I harbor have their own limitations,” Vincent says. “They have less power there than they do here, and aside from that, Chaos has…developed some affection for this world.”

“And you?” Lazard asks. He looks over Vincent, not so cool as his brother, but more perceptive in some ways. “Hojo’s dead.”

Vincent knows. He still aches, and hates that he feels so. He hates the man even now. He hates the way that Chaos purrs at him, pleased that the death has not soothed Vincent’s soul, but that instead Vincent has nothing to prevent him from contemplating the gaping, raw space of his life.

“They’ve asked to travel,” he finally says. “There are hunts open now that were foreclosed before, due to Jenova’s activities.”

“Of course,” Rufus says, tightly.

“You?” Lazard asks again. He does not look to the man at his side, but he draws himself up under Rufus’ gaze.

It is not affection Vincent feels. But they know him, have fought for him, succored him, submitted to him. They have fed and protested his demons, and they have had all the pieces of him laid out before them and have looked upon them and known them. It is something he has not had before, and something he has grown accustomed to.

Something, Chaos whispers to him, that he wants. A base truth.

“I may allow it,” he says at last.

“Back to Old Corel?” Then Lazard smiles, getting to his feet. He is amused by something, and only more so when he sees Rufus tensely not put out a hand to stop him. His face rises only inches from Vincent’s and his skin smells of burnt flesh and incense. He has fed. His wounds are almost healed, and his blood sings under his skin. “I never thought I’d do well outside of Midgar. It’s a cesspool, but it marks its own. But…”

Rufus breathes in sharply when Lazard’s fingers touch the side of Vincent’s face. “Perhaps farther than that,” Vincent tells him quietly. “Along the borders.”

“Where there are no borders.” Lazard tilts his head and removes his glasses. The curve of his throat pulls out of his shirt. “I don’t care for hunting for sport. But even disorder needs a starting point, and if not Old Corel, you’ll need somewhere to return to.”

He kisses Vincent, both hands around Vincent’s face. His hips rise as Vincent put his hands on them, slits the cloth to bare them. He wraps his legs around Vincent when they slide onto the bed. Without his glasses his eyes are unfocused, the hazy blue of high summer. His mouth is wet and red, and sucks at the scars across Vincent’s body as if it could draw sweet nectar from them.

Rufus is joined to the post when they stop, his fingers welded together around the wood. His mouth is still but his eyes move unceasingly across their bodies, the bloody smears across Lazard’s throat and shoulder, the lines of Vincent’s fingers on Lazard’s hip. The clench and strain of Lazard’s flesh around Vincent’s cock when Vincent settles Lazard’s leg over his shoulder.

“What can be taken,” Rufus finally says, without emotion.

“He should choose,” Vincent tells him, and smiles at the slow rise in Rufus’ eyes. Affection, no, but humor, appreciation, lust and its dark twin revulsion, these Vincent will not deny.

Lazard twists and pants. He leaves his arms over his head, where his fingers lock themselves in the sheets, but digs the heel of his foot into the bed, pushing himself down onto Vincent. “Damn it. Rufus, _damn_ it. Come here.”

The anger flies from Rufus, but the fear is always there. He stares down at them. “Why?”

“Because I want to live, you bastard,” Lazard gasps. He throws his head back and whines, his eyes shut up tightly, when Vincent draws a claw around the stretching, flushed skin clutching his cock. “Did I want to before? We’ll never know, thanks to you. But I want to now, I want to—come here. I want you here. Come here.”

“You’ve already pledged yourself,” Vincent says, and he hears Chaos in his voice but for once he feels no unwillingness to share the demon’s presence. The demons have shared in all of his life, too, and lie too closely to him for simple hatred. He would feel their absence. “You have to come to me. But whether you come to him, that’s his choice.”

“You are,” Rufus says viciously, “Worse.”

But he comes. He sits on the bed, his fists pressed on his knees, as Vincent wrings Lazard into bliss. His brother beats his head into the side of Rufus’ leg and Rufus is still and watchful, and does not intervene. And then Lazard slows, turns soft, only moving to press one hand over the metal gauntlet at his hip. His legs drop from around Vincent and he grimaces as Vincent withdraws.

Lazard trembles when Vincent pauses, head just over Lazard’s splayed thigh. Chaos has had enough to bind but the demon always hungers. The blood is still pounding through Lazard’s body, close to the surface here, and Chaos whispers but Vincent quiets the demon for once. This is what Vincent asks for, this time.

Vincent presses his teeth to Lazard’s skin without breaking it. He could, he wants to himself, but he will give them this, this once. He has learned something about debts, and about collecting on them.

When he lifts his head, the skin is red and dented but that will fade. Quickly, if Lazard takes the arm Rufus holds out to him, and Lazard is slow with satiation but not hesitant to grip it, use it to pull Rufus to tip over above his head. “You bought me,” Rufus says, but he curls himself around Lazard, demands with the stiff shield of his body that Vincent break them or go. “You—”

“What you deserve, no less,” Lazard says, sleepy, appreciative, fully understanding, and then he bites into Rufus’ wrist. He leans his head on his brother’s thigh as he suckles.

Rufus does not move when Vincent kisses him, nor when Vincent slips his hand behind Lazard’s head onto Rufus’ hard cock. He offers up his throat with a snarl, and tears his own flesh on Vincent’s teeth when he comes, but by then Lazard has finished drinking from him. When Vincent kisses him the second time, Rufus twists his hand in Vincent’s hair and returns it savagely.

“Our new kingdom in the wilderness,” Rufus says as Vincent moves away. He slumps back into the bed, Lazard’s head still on his leg. His eyes are angry, stunned, and, slow as the last drops of blood pooling into the hollows of his collarbone, considering. He is fearful, yes, but he cannot resist. “I can’t wait.”


	8. Aftermath, Sephiroth, Angeal, Genesis and Tifa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original end to the story, before I decided it was a little too hopeful.

Sephiroth is late.

Tifa gets to her feet, then sits back down. Her hand digs into the grass around her before she can help it, and by the time Rhapsodos has snorted at the green stains on her fingers, she’s pulled up yet another fistful of blades. She drops them and rubs her hand over her bare knees; it’s a warm night, and as she doesn’t want Aeris to worry later, she’s rolled up her trousers and taken off her boots. Aeris knows what they’re going to do, doesn’t shy away from Tifa afterwards, but she still whitens at bloodstains, still spends half the night scrubbing them furiously in the bath.

“Never fear, Miss Lockhart,” Rhapsodos drawls. “No doubt he’s merely preparing for his grand entrance.”

Angeal grimaces and looks apologetically at Tifa. He even lifts from his crouch, as if he’s going to come over and speak with her, but one of the two men lying at his feet groans and Angeal stiffens. He grimaces again when Rhapsodos sharply raps the back of the man’s head with his scabbard.

He showed up the quickest, and he was the one who dug out the old petitions for relief from the archives, petitions that Hojo had ignored for years and years. Tifa doesn’t doubt his dedication anymore but something about his distaste still irritates her. Mostly the hypocrisy, she guesses. Aeris will never bring herself to view this part of their lives as casually as Tifa, no matter how many times she sees it, but that’s because she values life itself so dearly. She feels the price. Angeal may think he does, but Tifa’s seen him kill. She doesn’t understand the distinction he draws between the heat of a fight, and an execution—death is death, and how it’s delivered doesn’t change what happens afterward.

Maybe Zangan would have agreed with him, once, Tifa thinks, and then she frowns. She hasn’t thought of Zangan for years. Hasn’t wanted to. He didn’t stop the town from killing Cloud, and by the time Tifa had been on the altar, he’d been dead. Too weak from giving up his share of the scant food around for so many years, too spent from fighting the wrong fight. He had taught her, and she respects what he taught her, but she respects what his death had taught her, too.

She misses Sephiroth’s approach because she’s thinking too hard. He’s just there, dropping his offering at her feet, looking cool and unflappable. Even though it’s not a dark sorcerer he’s brought, but a damn goblin. It gibbers and whines in its chains, recognizing her, and after a moment she’s placed it as an escaped servant Cloud’s father has asked for.

“Really, Sephiroth,” Rhapsodos says scornfully. “How inappropriate. This is hardly about bolstering your ego.”

Sephiroth just bends a hard gaze on Tifa till she shrugs. It’s not what they’d planned on, but it’ll make the call stronger. And she doesn’t give a damn about his and Rhapsodos’ rivalry, so long as it yields a good result for Cloud.

“It’s fine,” she says, and Rhapsodos presses his lips together, his hurt pride wavering for a moment. Then he sighs and draws back to Angeal’s side, drops to his knees with a grace that she can’t help but admire.

She likes him the best of the three, strangely enough. He’s petty and provocative, and quotes poetry that has nothing to do with anything, and is the most likely of the three to do something stupid out of sheer resentment for losing his independence, even if he gave that up of his own free will. She should dislike him just for that last one. But he doesn’t pity her, like Angeal does, and he doesn’t look at her as if he wishes that _he’d_ been the one dying at Cloud’s feet, like Sephiroth sometimes does. He calls Angeal an idiot for hesitating over what’s already done, and once in a while she catches him frowning at Sephiroth’s back, and thinks that maybe his stupid baiting of the other man has more to do with distraction than anything else. He probably understands their position the best of them, even if he grows restless in it.

The sorcerers are beginning to stir again, while the goblin has subsided into a shivering heap. Sephiroth is still standing over them, as if any of the three is going anywhere. He looks up sharply when Tifa clears her throat, then sweeps his coat out of the way and goes to his knees. He draws his sword out of its scabbard and lays it on the ground in front of him, so the flat of the blade reflects his eyes back up at Tifa.

He makes her uneasy. He’s nothing but polite to her, even, if she’s not reading him wrong, awkwardly ingratiating. And they’re bound together now as much as she was already bound to Cloud, so there’s no point in holding him at arm’s length. But she doesn’t know what to make of his…his desperation. He wants so badly, more badly than anyone she’s ever seen, and all the people she’s seen want so much have been on the other side of her fists.

If he twists that, if he turns that against Cloud, as she’s seen done, she will hunt him through life and death. And that will be easy now, since she can trace him through Cloud.

His eyes flicker, looking at her through the blade’s reflection, and Tifa almost rolls her eyes at his impatience. She wants Cloud back too.

Tifa looks at the sky, at the height of the moon, and then down at the whimpering offerings at her feet. Her wrist hurts. She rubs it, then takes out her knife and cuts lightly along the old scar. As the blood drips out, she raises her hands and begins to chant.

She repeats the prayer three times. At the end of each time, Sephiroth slits a throat, until finally the grass is soaked through around all of them. The blood oozes out of the soil up over Tifa’s toes, kept body-warm by the magic pulsing through it. On her wrist the blood slowly dries. She opens and closes her hand a few times, thinking there won’t be enough, but then she hears the whisper in her head and she stops. She feels the blood swirl about her ankles, and then, quick as a puff of breath, the ground is hard and dry under her feet, and the bodies are withered husks. The flutter of air as she lowers her arms makes one of them, the goblin, fall to white ash.

It feels different. Tifa looks around and the world looks different for a moment. It’s like…she tilts her head and it goes away, that dreaming feel, and she breathes in and presses her fingers to the scar on her wrist. She is herself, wherever she is, wherever she’s just been—wherever Cloud had just, very briefly, let her see through his eyes.

Someone shifts in front of her. Sephiroth. He lifts his head and he’s angry, ready to question her, and then his eyes go behind her and they hear the sweep of wings.


	9. Aftermath, Zack the sex-positive fanboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Zack as comic relief, and I wanted to express my frustration at having to keep cutting out porn scenes/ideas because they would slow down the plot development. Sadly, neither his nor my whack-a-doo sense of humor matched the tone of the main story.

The room was quiet for a few seconds after Cloud finished. Not an uncomfortable or threatening silence—at this point everyone had more or less put things together for themselves. Even Reeve, busy as he’d been with his unexpected elevation, had asked enough of the right questions that he should have the major points down. And nobody, so far as Tifa could tell, was going to go to war.

She wasn’t going to kid herself that they were all fine with it, but Midgar was settled enough for the roads to open back up and elder demons weren’t pouring into the borderlands, and they could leave if they wanted to. And most of them, including her, were probably itching to get out and to just get some distance, some time. Some practice with all of the new…arrangements and things like that. Starting a fight would just get them stuck here for longer.

So the quiet was more of a contemplative one, she figured. They all had known the whole story, but nobody had really just laid it out from beginning to end. And it was something else, just sitting on a soft couch with a full belly, Aeris snuggled up to her side, and having someone describe for hours and hours what had just seemed like a furious, crazy flash. Some of it she had known, of course, but she just hadn’t really thought about it.

“Wow,” Zack said. He rubbed one hand over his face; Tifa was almost sure that between Cloud and Angeal, he’d gotten the parts he hadn’t been around for, but he looked so stunned that maybe they hadn’t. “Wow. You all really, really took this seriously. I mean, Tifa’s the only one who got laid?”

Or maybe—Tifa struggled for a moment, trying to figure out what they could have _told_ him for Zack to come up with that. Then she just gave up and stared at him. She looked over at a comforting pat on the shoulder, but Aeris shrugged, without much more of a clue than Tifa, even if she looked much more at home about that.

“I’m just saying. You pull three helpless, weak, really gorgeous men out of a stone pit they’ve been in for two years, right? No sight, no touch, nothing, and then hello, awesome blond mage is here to save your soul,” Zack went on. The disbelief was quickly disappearing from his face, and just as quickly being replaced with an inappropriate enthusiasm. “And nothing? Not even a quick moment of reassurance that you haven’t gone insane and are making it all up? You know, this is real, feel this, that wouldn’t happen in a dream, now, would it?”

Cloud’s face had gone so blank that Tifa began to get up, but then he grimaced and hunched over, picking at the plate in front of him. They’d confirmed that he could still eat human food, even if he didn’t need to, but he was starting to look like he regretted those apples.

“Fair,” Sephiroth said warningly.

“Hey, Lockheart wasn’t _it_ , you idiot. You even know how it works with two people, or you just used to your—ow! Elena!” Reno held his shoulder and looked wounded. “Defending your honor, here.”

“Well, I don’t think that that’s her honor, but sorry, you’re right,” Zack said. He smiled apologetically at Elena, who looked about as pleased with it as she had with Reno’s comment. “Okay. Two of you got it going and got it gone. But—”

“And speaking for me,” Reno muttered, running his hand over the back of his head and completely missing Rufus’ and Tseng’s death glares. “Just ‘cause there’s a demon in my business doesn’t mean there’s not some advantages. Life’s a sack of shit and all, and I got my soul damned, but hey, Vincent _is_ pretty…er…you know…”

Vincent was gazing straight at Reno, something rippling under his robes at the shoulders, as if the flesh there was swelling and shrinking. The shadows in that corner of the room suddenly swept towards Vincent, braziers dying and magic orbs popping, so that his pale face and glowing red eyes floated, ghostly, in a sea of black.

“Oh, well, I didn’t want to bring it up, but I guessed there was something like that going on. But I mean, it’s a little rude, and I try not to be rude.” Then Zack frowned. He prodded some of the food around his plate, then pointed his fork at an unimpressed Vincent. “But hey, wait, even with elder demon powers and sexy biting, you’re still dealing with blood loss. And I know they’re sharing in the demon goodness, but I have completely seen Reno too tired to do jack shit and not lying about it. I checked.”

“Have you,” Rufus said. He poured more wine and then picked up his glass as if it were a potential weapon.

Oblivious, Zack turned away from the horns and wings shaping themselves out of Vincent’s shadow and towards Rufus. “And I absolutely believe that you were up to unnatural, bendy, painful shit even before you linked up with an elder, but there’s a point where the flesh just don’t. Especially if you keep bitching to each other instead of working out some kind of rotation and feeding schedule…”

“We _had_ one,” Tseng muttered. He twitched when Rude put a supportive hand on his shoulder. Cissnei’s offer of the blood-laced wine met with a slightly better reception.

“…and back to my point, lots of people were hurting and in need of comfort, and they went unsatisfied,” Zack said. “Angeal, come on, isn’t that in the training somewhere?”

Angeal had long since buried his face in his hands. “No. No.”

“Well, it should be, and training went to shit when you all vanished anyway.” Undaunted, Zack reached for more of the fruit. He grabbed citrus slices, grapes, and an apple that he bit into loudly. “I bet Genesis would’ve been in a much better mood after a couple blowjobs.”

Genesis opened his mouth. “He wasn’t,” Sephiroth said dryly.

Genesis shut his mouth and reached for his sword. He looked murderous when he saw that someone had moved it, and only a shade less so when he turned around and realized that it had been Cloud. “I don’t remember any such thing, which, if it did happen, speaks as to the quality of _such_ rumored attentions.”

“Are you giggling?” Tifa hissed at the woman shuddering against her.

Aeris lifted her head just enough for Tifa to see teary, torn but ultimately amused eyes. Then she pushed her face into Tifa’s arm again, desperately trying to muffle the noises.

“Is there a point to this, Fair?” Rufus demanded.

“Is there a point to all that tension between you and Lazard?” Zack cheerfully retorted. He took another bite of the apple, tucking it into one cheek so it ballooned out as he talked. “Which, by the way, is sick and wrong and dirty, and seriously distracting. And I’m not even interested, really. Don’t like you, not sorry about it, used to like Laz, but still working out how I feel about the whole blood drinking thing. And tension with your half-brother thing. It’s just, well, come on. You’d have to be real, true, rotting and non-possessed dead to not react to the two of you. How the fuck did you get out of bed with all that swimming around?”

Rufus, of all people, went pale. The bowl of his glass cracked and he looked distantly down at it, then set the glass on the table. He pressed his lips together as if that was very possibly the only thing holding his calm together, and from the way his bleeding fingers flexed he wasn’t certain about whatever was under the calm.

“That’s beyond your scope of duty, Zack.” Lazard pulled out a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to Rufus. He even tucked a corner around one finger, which Rufus clearly hadn’t been expecting. “You’re a terrible example of Shinra’s army.”

“Takes one to know one.” Zack grinned at Lazard’s glare. He grinned even more when Rufus flicked off Lazard’s handkerchief and simply licked the blood off his fingers, and Lazard pointedly didn’t look. “So anyway, point is, I’ve used my strategic and tactical training to identify at _least_ fifty-six possible opportunities for sex in this whole story that you all missed. Someone should have gotten me involved earlier.”

“You did a good job,” Aeris whispered. She was hanging limply off of Tifa, the occasional tremble still going through her, but she managed to pat Tifa’s hand. “That’s just not what your job is. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not even…” Tifa sighed. “You would side with him.”

Aeris kissed her shoulder. “Sorry. I like him.”

Most of the room didn’t, although Zack kept stuffing his face as if he wasn’t in imminent danger of dying fifty-six simultaneous yet different deaths. Probably the only thing that saved him was Cloud’s sudden rise to his knees on his couch. Sephiroth had to grab his arm instead of Masamune, while Angeal took the opportunity to smack the apple in Zack’s mouth and jam it in further.

“I don’t…” Cloud said uncomfortably. “Do we have to talk about this? I don’t…”

“Sorry!” Zack spat out the apple core and then turned on infuriatingly appealing eyes. “Sorry. I’m just rambling. It’s just something I was thinking about, didn’t mean to make you feel guilty or anything.”

“I don’t know if I feel guilty,” Cloud said abruptly, with a twist to his voice that had everyone but Tifa staring at him. He sat down again. “It’s more that you’re starting to sound like my father. He thinks that now that I’m a god, I should ask for better offerings.”

Aeris squeaked and took her face out of Tifa’s arm, so Tifa could have her turn to grin and kiss a blushing cheek. Sephiroth, on the other hand, wasn’t blushing, but he certainly looked as if he was seriously thinking about trading Cloud’s arm for a go at Zack. And Tifa couldn’t even look at Genesis or Angeal.

“Your dad’s…huh,” Zack finally said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cloud said calmly, reaching for his plate. He had to shake off Sephiroth’s hand to do so, but he stayed put when he’d been tense and skittish and distant the whole time before. “We don’t agree, and that’s it.” 

Sephiroth settled back, folding his hands in his lap. He didn’t try offering Cloud more food, like Angeal did, or one of the silk wraps, like Genesis, but just watched Cloud. He’d kept his sleeves pushed up above his elbows all night, the same way Tifa had left off her gauntlets and held onto a clean carving knife, but as Genesis pushed past him for more wine, one sleeve began to slip down his arm and he didn’t push it back up. 

“All right, well, then let’s talk about something else,” Zack said. He passed Cloud some of the dessert pastries, then took a particularly large and cream-stuffed one for himself. “So, a little bird told me we’re thinking about invading the underworld? I’m in.”


	10. Fragment from a never-to-be-written sequel, Reno is the worst sacrifice ever and Zack loves his work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zack, admittedly, got a bit short-changed in the main story. So he gets porn as a consolation prize.

“The fuck is this?” Reno said disgustedly.

He was spread-eagled on the soft, grassy ground at the base of two hills, which provided some shade without completely blocking out the warm spring sunshine. Strips of leather—the finest dragonhide, taken from the belly so it was stronger than steel yet soft as a baby’s skin—firmly lashed each wrist and ankle to an iron stake, which was driven deeply enough to hold against even a demonically-favored man’s strength. And he was naked. Very naked. With his ridiculously pretty white skin glowing partly from his exasperation and partly from the oil Elena was dumping over him.

“Heaven?” Zack suggested, leaning on his sword.

Reno and Elena glowered up at him, while Cissnei, clucking her tongue in time to the shake of her head, began rubbing the oil into Reno’s left shoulder. “Don’t make me fucking come over there,” Reno snapped. “Hewley’s little doggie or not, you better not be laughing at me.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” Zack looked up the hill, where Tseng and Lazard were consulting that giant book they’d dragged out of some temple library. Then he looked back at Reno, watching Elena’s fingers push ripples of oil over Reno’s ribs. Nice scar over the right hip, looked like something with teeth, and not the casual fanging that Valentine’s lot did with each other. “I’m serious. Makes me wish I’d stuck around to volunteer, instead of helping Ang and Gen clear out that temple.”

Reno glowered at him some more, eyes all narrow in a way that did nothing for the angular, harsh planes of his face. Then he snorted and dropped his head back. Smug did look much better on him. “Yeah, well, I damn well was getting something for my trou—ow! Fuck!”

Elena looked down at him, prim and pursed, and then deliberately twisted his left nipple again. She cocked her head, much less prim but still pretty pursed in the mouth area, and dug her nail into the edge of the nipple, where dark pink and white skin met. “You like it,” she said, in a monotone fit to match Sephiroth. “Besides, we told you—”

“Need a full erection,” Cissnei said briskly, cupping Reno’s scrotum with one hand while working her other hand under it with short, precise motions. She paused to study the flush crawling up Reno’s cock, then wrapped two fingers and a thumb around the base of the cock and slowly pulled them upward.

“I hate you.” Reno jerked against his bonds, his eyes glazing over a little. “All right, I don’t. But shit, you two are too fucking—shit. Shit. _Shit_. Fuck is Fair?”

“Oh, yeah, well, there’s a chance the binding circle might get broken, so we figured better have somebody else in it with you,” Zack said absently. Reno looked really, really good when he was frustrated and helpless. Better than the smug. “And since you can only have men in the circle for this one, and Rude’s off with Tifa—”

“— _asshole_ , he’s my _partner_ , wave a fucking pair of tits at him that aren’t even _open for business_ , that fucking possessive little Ancient—”

Aeris wasn’t really _possessive_ , so much as she just wanted some time to nail down her thing with Tifa. Which Zack could respect—it was pretty damn difficult to get serious about a relationship with demons and gods getting in your business—but also, it was true that Aeris had been surprisingly firm about it. Even ignoring how small and fragile she looked, that was a hell of a slap she had. He was surprised Elena was taking it so well. “—and Tseng says he’s got to wait for a message—”

“—my _ass_ , he just is fucking grudge-holding, like it’s my fault it blew up—”

Then again, Elena and Lazard seemed pretty friendly these days. He had a towel out and waiting for when she was done playing around with Reno’s nipples. And he seemed to be out in the field an awful lot, considering he was still insisting he shouldn’t be considered a primary fighter. Supposedly it was the books, because he had the education in old dead boring languages, but like books left fang marks. “—and Lazard just doesn’t do this, I guess?”

Reno shut his mouth. He and Cissnei, who was trying scrub some of the extra oil off on Reno’s knee, exchanged looks. “Fair, listen, I know you’re new to this.”

“But we still don’t talk about how Shinra family relations are fucked up, and even though Valentine basically has you all orgy-biting, Rufus still has boundary issues, which is stupid as hell because I completely walked in on him and Lazard the other day?” Zack suggested. He smiled at Cissnei. “Go ahead and roll out the excuse, honey, but I saw tongue and it wasn’t inserted into a _mouth_.”

“Fuck, well, your funeral. Rufus has a lot to work through, all right? And Lazard keeps jaunting off with you soldiers like that’s going to help.” Reno looked at the sky again, and completely missed the leather strip Cissnei pulled out till two loops of it had tightened around the base of his cock. Then he yelped and wrenched at the stakes, his buttocks rubbing dents into the grass. “Cissnei! The fuck!”

Cissnei tied off Reno’s balls while she was at it, then stood up and swept a critical eye over Reno. “Full erection through the whole spell, which clocked in at an average of twenty-two minutes during dry runs. You already went off early once, Reno.”

“Fuck you, all over those Wutai toys I’m gonna find soon as I get out of this,” Reno hissed.

Satisfied with her work, Cissnei strode up the hill to join the others. Elena greeted her with a nice kiss, so maybe Lazard wasn’t the solution to that particular puzzle. Lazard looked up like he heard Zack’s thoughts, frowned at whatever expression Zack was making, and then gestured that they were going to the top of the hill where the rest of the spellcasting gear was. Zack gave him a snappy salute and he frowned even more, but Tseng dragged him off.

“Shit.” Reno had slumped into the ground. “Shit. This isn’t fair.”

“Yeah.” Zack watched the others disappear one by one behind the canvas windbreak they’d set up. The wind wasn’t so bad down between the hills, but up there it had put out the candles during one of the practice runs. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He pushed his sword more firmly into the ground, till he was sure it wouldn’t tip. Then he began pulling off his clothes. He got to his boots before he looked back at Reno, curious about the lack of comment.

Reno was staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and amusement in his eyes. Added in a little appreciation once Zack kicked off his boots and pushed down his trousers. “Fair, you’re madder than Sephiroth with his mommy calling, but I like it,” Reno said, studying the situation below Zack’s waist. “Your mentor teach you a few things about guarding in the buff?”

“Hey, leave Angeal out of it,” Zack said. He walked over to stand by Reno’s waist. The oil was completely dripping off him, just sitting on the grass instead of soaking into the soil, and that was going to require some careful handling. “What he does with Cloud deserves some privacy. Otherwise isn’t it blasphemy and sacrilege?”

“No idea. Ask a priest or something,” Reno said absently. He turned his head and licked at Zack’s forearm.

Zack paused, about to touch Reno’s jaw, and then got down on his knees and bent over for some mouth to mouth while he was running his hand over Reno, swiping off some of the oil. Reno had a really long, kind of narrow tongue. It still looked human, more or less, but Zack wondered if that had come before or after Chaos. Anyway, it knew what it was doing, enough so that Zack got distracted and probably counted Reno’s ribs a couple times and tickled that scar on his right side and just generally felt him up before pulling back. Reno craned his neck, trying to follow, and flopped back, snarling in frustration.

“Fucking fucker rogue incubus fuckers,” Reno muttered. His hips were twitching, trying to push up when he had no leverage. “Twenty what fucking minutes?”

“No idea. Look at a—” Zack grunted, then shifted onto one hand and his knees for a better angle “—clock or something.”

Reno looked at him. “Shit, are you fingering yourself?”

Fucking riding something that required you to post in stirrups, Zack thought. His buttocks were so used to clenching that he was having a hard time getting in the second finger, and it hadn’t been that fucking long. He spread his knees some, then cursed as one slid over the oily grass, almost sending him into a painful split. As it was, a sharp pain radiated out from the crease of his thigh and torso, which…hmmm, he could work with. He rotated a hip and then bit his lip as the pain spread down his thigh and softened.

“Shit.” Reno pulled at his arms. “Shit. C’mere and let me help.”

“With what? Your third hand?” Zack needed a distraction. Something that didn’t get him too excited too early, which, glorious as it was, Reno’s whole naked, sprawled, tied-down body was doing. He shuffled gingerly around, still working his second fingertip around the edge of his hole, and then tried to stretch across Reno.

The grass was too slippery, and just planting his face in Reno’s groin wouldn’t be thrilling for anybody. Zack adjusted his legs, then edged his free hand up onto Reno’s hip, along the bone, across an oil-drenched mat of red hair—Reno twisted like he _wanted_ Zack’s nose impaling his stomach—and skirted Reno’s flushed, hot scrotum. He got his fingers firmly planted in the ground under Reno’s ass and leaned over again, and…his knuckle nudged something.

Well, distracted, fuck, that’d work. Zack worked his index finger free and traced out the thing, making Reno shudder, every muscle thrown into strained, desperate relief for a moment. Smooth, polished, but a little grain underneath? When Zack flicked it—Reno whined, needy and thin—it bobbed with a weight somewhat less heavy than stone. Maybe some kind of treated wood? Lacquer? He pushed at it, then at the flesh greedily sucking around it, and then his damn second finger finally sank in and his face nuzzled Reno’s cock for a few seconds as he got used to it.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Reno was chanting. “Oh fuck fuck fuck.”

Two fingers good. Zack lifted his head, took a lick at Reno’s cock while he was there—he’d meant a little more than that, but hey, tangents turned into detours—and then looked at Reno’s blank, staring eyes. “So, that what she meant by going off early?”

With an effort, Reno managed to drag his head around and aim a vaguely annoyed twitch of his eyebrows at Zack. He stopped trying when Zack swung a leg over him, not about to wait for three fingers when Reno was making those kinds of little, hitched begging noises. “Fuck you, Fair,” Reno grunted. “Fucking Tseng. Fucking fuck sex fucking magic fuck.”

“Guess I can’t take it out, huh.” Zack positioned himself and the damn oil threw his hips askew. He shifted back into place, wishing he had claws on his toes, and reached behind and under for Reno’s cock. The head was so wet and slick he probably wasn’t giving Reno any friction to speak of, but Reno moaned like it didn’t make a difference. “Is that what they did with that herb paste? Did they pour all of that in you? Because that was a huge damn pot.”

Reno went to curse him and damn near strangled himself instead, groaning and screaming at the same time. And nearly knocked Zack’s knees out from under him, bucking like that. As it was, Zack had Reno’s balls pushing into his ass before he was ready for it. Before Reno was ready for it. Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

Shit, it was good. He found himself kneading Reno’s shoulders for a grip, oil coming up between his fingers, his jaw bobbing just a hair from Reno’s spread, gasping, fanged mouth. It was—Zack looked at the long, white teeth, his blood roaring in his ears. He bent and then pulled back, arching his hips as Reno somehow, despite the stakes, jammed himself up hard enough to rattle Zack’s bones. No. Not that. Not his thing. But it was fucking _hot_.

There was a burst of incense and fire nearby. Zack twisted around, saw the binding magic already wrapping around a kind of black-flushed red cloud, twisted the other way, saw nothing was coming at them, and moved back to where he couldn’t reach his sword, and where he could just. Seriously fuck himself. Just. Damn.

He hadn’t pulled himself off yet when Tseng came down the hill. Oil and sex and really good relaxed feelings and all that. Reno was still moving weakly under him, a little more vigorously when Reno saw Tseng, but basically, Reno didn’t…oh, right. Zack reached back and _tried_ , but Turks tied bitches of knots.

Tseng sighed and squatted down, so the oil only got on his shoes and the bottom of his trousers. He reached under Reno, made something pop wet and obscene and fuck, Zack couldn’t help rolling his hips to that, and then he pulled his hand back and a leather strip was dangling from it and Reno drove himself up once, his whole body shivering. He seemed to stay like that forever, just arched on the heels of his feet and the backs of his shoulders, and then he dropped into a boneless heap.

“Was that twenty minutes?” Zack asked Tseng.

Tseng looked at him. Zack rolled his eyes and got off Reno, and Tseng reached under Reno again with two fingers. He slid his arm forward, waited a few seconds, and then began making corkscrew motions. Cleaning out, Zack guessed.

“Fair, if you’re not going to offer a vein,” Tseng started.

“Fuck you,” Zack and Reno both said. Then Reno groaned, hitching his hips down towards Tseng’s hand.

Zack looked them over, then got his sword and cut Reno’s hands loose. He grinned as Reno promptly plastered himself to Tseng, oil and bodily fluids and everything else smearing up to Tseng’s resigned face, head burrowing into Tseng’s neck.

“I love a good mission,” Zack said, walking off. “Hey, can I get a towel?”


	11. Fragment from a never-to-be-written sequel, Cloud and Sephiroth

The closest comparison Sephiroth can find is to a bat’s wing, but their membranes have fine hairs. This expanse beneath his hands is perfectly smooth, without even scar tissue where he remembers blood and ragged edges. It warms his palms, and his fingers have stroked along one delicate bony finger before he can recall himself. He had only asked to see.

“I still have two in the underworld,” Cloud says quietly, his wing twitching towards his back. He is still self-conscious, still looking at Sephiroth as if he fears the flaws Sephiroth will find. “The other one looks…different. It’s hard to explain. Things don’t look the same there anyway. But anyway, only this one carries over.”

Sephiroth slides his hand along the leading edge, feeling the strength and spring of it. Magic alone is sufficient to power flight, but he can imagine the wing sweeping over an updraft, mastering the rush of wind, and a twin on the other side, effortlessly turning the air to its will. And the rest of Cloud looks well-fed and well-rested, healthy color in his cheeks, firm sleek muscles under unmarred skin save for a long scar in the center of Cloud’s chest.

He hates to admit it, but the underworld suits Cloud.

He presses his mouth to the bone that runs along the leading edge. The skin is tough but tissue-thin, and he can feel the push of blood against his teeth. Cloud hisses, shivers, tries to pull back the wing and tuck it out of sight but Sephiroth kisses the base of the clawed thumb. There’s a prick as the claw digs into his cheekbone, and then one warm drop sliding down his face.

Next he curls himself over the wing, wrapping his mouth around the join of it to Cloud’s shoulderblade. Cloud puts his hands on Sephiroth’s waist, then on Sephiroth’s shoulders. He pushes down and kisses the cut on Sephiroth’s cheek, his tongue teasing the lips of the wound before healing it; his tithe is not the same as Valentine’s but blood is powerful and this blood is given freely, and Cloud hates waste. Even now, in godhood, he will sleep on tattered furs rather than see them thrown out.

They have already lain together too many times tonight, leaving Sephiroth sore and aching, with that insistent tug under his skin that means he needs to feed, but he traces out the stretch of flesh around the wing joint with his mouth. The skin wrinkles here and there but the folds are taut and he has to tease and push his tongue in between them. He strokes his hand up Cloud’s side, then across his back. All the muscles are different, long bundles of them shifting under Sephiroth’s fingers.

Cloud pulls back his hair, then his head. He presses Sephiroth back into the pile of furs and pins him with his mouth. Sephiroth arches, expecting the flush of heat and then the deep, twisting, drag of power out of him, painful and pleasurable in measures so intermixed he struggles for consciousness, but instead he feels something push into him. A slow, deliberate caress of fire down every nerve he has, and when Cloud lifts his head, Sephiroth feels his body spring to life as if he’s just drained a dozen lesser deities.

“Don’t look like that,” Cloud says, amused, and somehow Sephiroth is reminded of Angeal. “If I take from you six times, I think I can give back once.”

“That’s not the arrangement,” Sephiroth says, but he is glad enough to sit up without his head spinning. He feels Cloud’s knee push forward and he spreads his legs, shifts his hips so his reviving erection can fit itself against Cloud’s thigh. “There’s a cracked summons just across camp.”

Cloud shrugs, folds his wing and it disappears. His brows rise as Sephiroth reaches for the empty space, and his hand drifts over Sephiroth’s hip, drawing little prickles here and there as it catches a scratch. He can heal the marks he leaves, or leave them, as he pleases. He pleases too much to erase them, but sometimes he can be persuaded otherwise.

But there is too much space now, despite his shoulder dipping under Sephiroth’s hand, his fingers licking over Sephiroth’s belly. Cloud has said something.

“That’s not,” Sephiroth replies slowly. “Not what I want. I can feed on many things, and you can’t, here.”

“I can go.” Then Cloud hisses, because Sephiroth has clenched his hand on Cloud’s shoulder. And it doesn’t hurt him, can’t hurt him, but he feels the intent. He pushes himself down onto Sephiroth before Sephiroth can remove the offending hand, licks a long, placating, distracting line up the side of Sephiroth’s neck. “All right, all right. I didn’t mean that. I just meant…”

He still acts as if he simply comes to Sephiroth’s call. It’s not right, and again that anger curls in Sephiroth, but Sephiroth does not want him to leave and so Sephiroth turns his head. Kisses him, gripping Cloud’s shoulder again, but this grip Cloud does not misunderstand.

They rock together sloppily, with little urgency until the last, startlingly desperate seconds. What power Cloud fed back to him has only glossed over Sephiroth’s fatigue, and he lets himself fold around his god’s body as his slack limbs and Cloud please. He strokes at the place where the wing emerges with a lazy hand.

“Genesis has maps of the underworld,” Cloud says after a while. He nibbles at Sephiroth’s collarbone, little bits of magic pulling up into his teeth and drawing Sephiroth further into a satiated daze. “And Angeal has books on demonic history. Accurate ones.”

“The maps aren’t?” Sephiroth murmurs. Then he twists, breathing in sharply, as Cloud leans up and sinks his teeth into the soft skin behind Sephiroth’s ear. 

He likes this side of Cloud, wishes he could tempt it out more often. He is an _offering_ , after all, and should be consumed. It is the proper fate. And it is something he has not had the luxury of experiencing in most of his life so far; he trusts, when he lays himself out and feels the drain into Cloud. Power, yes, perhaps senses, temporarily, but he himself will stay whole. He believes in that, and so, when he feels his control unravel and splay open and naked, he gladly welcomes the respite.

“If you want to visit the underworld, I can bring you,” Cloud says after a long moment, his teeth still grazing Sephiroth’s skin. Then he props himself up and looks too solemnly into Sephiroth’s eyes. “If you want to see. But it’s…different.”

“I want you to have what’s your due,” Sephiroth tells him. “I want to give it to you.”

Cloud smiles. He’s amused again, but wary. “I’m young. I shouldn’t have much there, you know.”

“You should have whatever you can hold,” Sephiroth says. 

Too fiercely, he supposes, but he hates the meddling that still pervades their lives. Even Chaos will have his reckoning some day, if Sephiroth can separate the elder demons from Valentine; he will accept that, in spite of the little the man has done and the damage that has resulted, he has too many ties to Cloud and Tifa, but Chaos owes Cloud debts that he will not pay, not in the manner that Cloud deserves, and Sephiroth means to call him to account.

“You really want to invade the underworld?” Cloud says. He looks surprisingly thoughtful. “The more land I have, the more time I’d have to spend there. It’s nice now, that I barely have to go back at all.”

“Your father still calls on you,” Sephiroth says, and that is too far.

Cloud goes silent. He does not react to the hand Sephiroth presses to his face, nor to the mouth that follows. Then he blinks, his pupils thin and long as needles. He sighs, runs one hand over his face. “I might not have a direct bond to him now, but he still outranks me.” He looks at Sephiroth. “You really want to take an army and kill him.”

Sephiroth holds his tongue. He knows too little of Cloud’s father, even now.

“I loved him once,” Cloud says calmly. “Maybe I still do, a little. He tried to be a father, as demons go. He still thinks of me as a son. But I don’t like him. Never did. Still, if you killed him, there’s a chance I could inherit his realm. I’m not his only son, and definitely not the eldest or strongest, but…”

“You thought about it?” Sephiroth says, blinking.

Cloud grins. It is dark and bitter and beautiful. “I don’t like him, I don’t like talking to him, and sometimes I don’t like what he asks for. You get a little crazy, I guess, thinking of ways to get out of it. But at the end of the day, I don’t want to stay down there.”

“I would tell—ask you first,” Sephiroth says, and closes his eyes when Cloud kisses his jaw. “I promise. I’d ask you.”

“Thank you.” Cloud kisses the edge of his mouth, then the side of his neck. “But I guess it doesn’t hurt for one of us to think about it.”


	12. Fragment from a never-to-be-written sequel, Cloud and Angeal

Cloud’s a little surprised when Angeal sits down next to him. He’s only been back for a day, and it usually takes two before Sephiroth is willing to let him out of his sight. Granted, he’s back because they had run a crazed demigod to ground in the desert, and the final battle had turned a square mile of sand into a glassy crater and tested even Cloud’s powers, but Sephiroth has taken more damage and still killed an army to stay by Cloud’s side.

“Genesis knocked him out and Tifa said the only way he’s getting out of bed is if he hurts her,” Angeal explains. He shows Cloud a fistful of glowing pebbles. Solidified magic, potential summons material, but right now they’re just little hungry cages looking for prisoners. Once Cloud nods, Angeal discreetly sucks the power out of one and puts the rest away. “I think Genesis is starting to enjoy that too damn much.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be resting, too?” Cloud asks. He needs to feed, so Angeal needs to feed, but Cloud doesn’t say anything about that. Even though they’re in a desert and he doesn’t have much choice here, not unless they manage to stumble across a sand-buried caravan or something like that. Some places are so desolate that they don’t even have any dead.

Angeal looks much better than the other two, but then, he had the rear, protecting Tifa while she tried to hold the exorcising circle they’d drawn in the sand. He still fidgets, and when Cloud looks over, the man’s pupils are more oval than round. “He’s still upset that he didn’t spot the cantrip. When I left he and Tifa were yelling at each other, and I expect he should be collapsing right around now.”

Cloud hums absently and lies down on his back, his legs hanging off the rim of the crater. The sun is still out but he can pull a little shadow around them, just enough to cut the burn. This place might not have dead—the demigod is sealed away, still technically alive—but it is a way to death, and so it is kin enough to Cloud. Psychopomp, Lazard had told him. One who knows the ways out of life, one who guides the lost. He might not have to bow his head anymore, but Cloud is still his father’s son.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Angeal says. His hand strays towards his back, then presses against his hip. “Our swords.”

That. Cloud wonders for a moment if he can just pretend he’s fallen asleep. Tifa’s been upset about it for the past week, even though she agrees that they needed to get them back. Sephiroth is at least twice as powerful with Masamune, and Genesis’ spellwork is much tighter with his rapier. At some point they should probably look into that—neither sword feels like particularly much to Cloud, and Masamune certainly existed well before Hojo was ever born, but there’s a distinct affinity when they’re in certain hands. They should check just to make sure that it’s not another Jenova trying to make a rival bond.

And Cloud did check before he handed them over. Maybe not that thoroughly, because he wasn’t thinking, but he would’ve caught anything from an elder. Anything from anyone lesser wouldn’t hold up against him.

It’s odd, he thinks, watching the sun haze and fade through his shadows. Odd to be the strongest.

“Are you all right?” Angeal asks.

Cloud blinks, then looks over. Angeal doesn’t even have his sword on—never lost it, still had it when they’d fought Jenova, and yet he looks as if he’s walking on glass. “Were you talking to Tifa?”

Angeal’s mouth twists just a little. He and Tifa have a working relationship, and most of the time Angeal genuinely likes her. But Zack says everybody liked Angeal, back when he was with Shinra. Everybody liked and trusted him and he never took advantage of it, but he was proud of it. Cloud can see it every time Tifa and Angeal start saying the same thing to him, and then Tifa turns her shoulder while Angeal pretends he doesn’t see.

“Valentine, actually,” Angeal says, his voice cooling. He puts out his hand when Cloud starts to sit up. “A while ago. He hasn’t come by or anything—as far as I know he’s still in Corel.”

“When did you talk to him?” Cloud says. He sits up anyway.

Angeal looks a bit like he regrets starting this talk, but he takes a deep breath. “We were still in Midgar, waiting to call you back. I was wondering—when you got them the first time, you said you hadn’t gone through your father for them.”

“He’s got so many things, and he didn’t know about you then. It wasn’t that hard to sneak them out.” Cloud thinks he sees where this is going now, and for a moment he wishes he was arguing with Tifa instead. At least she understands they can’t avoid his father. “Jenova dying got his attention. I had to go to him and ask for them this time.”

He’s expecting Angeal to tell him he didn’t have to do it, that the man wished he hadn’t done it. Instead Angeal just nods. “When do we clear that debt?”

The bottom of the crater glistens like there’s water, and Cloud can see a few curious birds circling overhead. Even with the shadows, the glass behind his legs soaks up the sunlight and throws the heat back out like hot coals. It won’t burn him, it doesn’t even make him uncomfortable, but he still reaches down and presses his palm against the glass. It cracks, softly, and then like thunder. Angeal jumps and curses, but stays where he is.

“That’s going to wake them,” Angeal says after the sound has died down. He rubs at the side of his head. It shouldn’t have hurt him either, not more than mild discomfort. “You know, no matter what Genesis says, it’s not actually a debt to him. It’s—”

“He said it was a present,” Cloud says quietly, staring at the fissures. The unmelted sand beneath is already sluicing up into the fractures, smearing the illusion. “A welcoming present. I didn’t owe him anything. He was just proud of me. Proud of what I am now.”

Angeal is silent. He takes out the rest of the summons and empties them, one by one, and then he sits next to Cloud, even as voices rise up from the camp behind them. He doesn’t offer, but when Cloud shifts to press into his side, Angeal dips his head till it is leaning on Cloud’s shoulder. Cloud lifts his hand to Angeal’s back, feeling the way it rises when Angeal’s breath hitches, when the power inside the other man uncoils towards his palm. He needs to feed, he wants to feed, but he waits a little longer.

“My sword wasn’t a gift,” Angeal eventually says. “You stole it back for me, and that slate was never wiped clean. It’s yours, you know. Offered freely.”

It’s a prayer, no matter that it’s not phrased in the ritual chants and formal terms they normally use. The power in Angeal is already spilling out, even before their mouths meet, twining into Cloud, desperate to hold him here. And he is willing.


	13. Fragment from a never-to-be-written sequel, Cloud and Sephiroth

The woods stretched on as far as the eye could see, every tree bare of leaves but garnished with a thick rind of snow. More snow cushioned their steps, just deep enough to sink unsettlingly underfoot. It didn’t crunch, but rather, puffed softly, as if the snowfall itself was a living, breathing thing. The only other aside from the two of them.

“This looks like part of the mountains,” Cloud finally said. He stopped in a small, perfectly circular clearing, gazing at the trees around them. “Maybe not an actual place around Nibelheim, but…well, maybe somewhere I dreamed of when I was living there. That’s what I mean, about things down here listening to you. It’s…”

“It’s not what I intended,” Sephiroth said. A wasteland, he thought. A forgotten backwoods, shunted off to the fringes, with nothing to recommend it.

Cloud hummed something, gently but firmly interrupting Sephiroth’s thoughts. Sephiroth had heard the song before, a lilting, repetitive tune that likely corresponded with one of the uplands ballads Tifa occasionally sang to herself. The other man continued to look around, slowly turning in place. When he was facing Sephiroth, he took a step backwards and tilted his head up to look at the frozen grey sky. He put his hands out and hummed again—no, something else was humming, because Sephiroth could see Cloud’s mouth and it was parted but still.

The sound was coming up through their feet. Sephiroth reached for his sword, then lowered his hand as Cloud—did something. Suddenly the snow was crackling, pulsing around them, and the gnarled leafless branches were the interweaving of an endless, impossibly intricate pattern of power, so strong Sephiroth could feel the buzz of it in the back of his throat. And the humming. It spun out from them, and for a moment seemed to _spin_ them, so they were at the center and the land whirled around them, proud cliffs and strong bedrock and relentless, irresistible ice and snow.

“I think it likes me,” Cloud said, small, shaky and laughing, and Sephiroth felt the air stretch sharply and then snap with a sting. Cloud seemed unaffected, his hands rising to the light flurry that had begun to fall. “I’m always going to be from the mountains, I guess. Even in the underworld.”

It was still…not what Sephiroth had meant to bring him. He deserved lands as rich as Wutai’s grassy plains, or Corel’s deep mines. But if he liked it, if it suited him and recognized that, then perhaps it would be satisfactory.

“Stop looking so irritated,” Cloud said. He was suddenly in front of Sephiroth, his hands slipping under Sephiroth’s coat to bare skin. The cold hadn’t been apparent before but it was now, nipping and teasing against the warmth of Cloud’s palms. “If it’d been an actual wasteland, I’d still take it. You _conquered_ this for me.”

“It wasn’t much of a battle,” Sephiroth muttered. “If all the elders are that lax in their strategy—”

“They’re not.” For a moment Cloud was solemn. He looked up at Sephiroth, his fingers curling tightly, and then he pushed them down into the snow.

Sephiroth caught himself on one hand, but then his weight shifted oddly and Cloud dropped astride his waist. His arm slid out from under him and he stiffened, then let the tension fade as Cloud leaned over him, using his shoulders as handholds. His coat was gone. The snow under his back was cool and strangely grainy, as if the individual particles would not fully pack together, but not uncomfortable. He feathered his fingers into a clump of it, then flicked them clean, settling his arms on either side of himself.

“And it wasn’t that easy,” Cloud said thoughtfully. He touched a strand of Sephiroth’s hair that had fallen across his chest, then carefully smoothed it off into the snow. Then his hand returned to Sephiroth’s chest, lightly tracing along the lines of the muscles. “Not that I’m doubting your generalship, but you can’t fool me like that down here. I don’t even have to try to know.”

“I don’t feel you in my head,” Sephiroth said.

Cloud cocked his head, his hand stilling. Then he grinned, and his wings were up and out behind him. They cast no shadow here, but their dark expanse threw off a palpable heat, enough so that Sephiroth ran his hand through the snow again, only to find it unmelted. And then he was shivering, fluid fire sluicing through him, and Cloud grinning closer and closer, until he had to twist his head back, unable to bear the man’s gaze.

“Now you sound like Genesis,” Cloud murmured. He stroked his hands down Sephiroth’s sides, his mouth burning close to Sephiroth’s face. Then he snorted. “Oh. _Oh_. You could just ask.”

Leather around his wrists and ankles, spreading him naked over the snow. More around his throat, pulling tight when he raised his head to Cloud’s mouth. He arched against his bonds as Cloud touched him, hands and mouth, and then let himself slacken in them. “I thought you said I don’t have to, here. You just _know_ —”

Cloud laughed at him, fingers tight and firm on Sephiroth’s cock, working it steadily. He bent over Sephiroth, his wings half-closing and dipping, their edges brushing Sephiroth’s outstretched arms. He sought out Sephiroth’s throat with his mouth, lapping the edges of the collarbone, and then drew Sephiroth’s cock up into his body. “You’re still supposed to _ask_ ,” he said, his hands digging into Sephiroth’s shoulders, his mouth pushing up Sephiroth’s chin. “You ask me. You ask me, do you want this land? Do you want me to kill for it, to give it to you? Do you want—do you want this offering? Will you take it? Will you want me, if I give it to you? Will you take me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sephiroth groaned, laying himself out. “Yes.”

The humming, it’d started again—and then Cloud was unraveling him, not only in him but taking him, reclaiming every piece, everything that had already been dedicated, and Sephiroth was deaf, was blind and dumb, was nothing but what Cloud held together. Took apart. As he pleased.

Still unmelted, the snow cradled them afterwards, with Cloud’s wings raised against the breeze. The land was still singing, Sephiroth noted idly, and as he did, he started to make out words and intent. It was speaking to _him_.

“Well, you fought for it,” Cloud said sleepily, running his hand across Sephiroth’s shoulder. “Why not?”


	14. Fragment from an unwritten joke sequel, Cloud, Rufus and Tifa

“I need to borrow one of your generals,” Rufus said.

Cloud blinked at the bowl of prayer balls in front of him. “What? No.”

“But I need one!” Rufus said urgently. “I already have the army, all I need is two weeks of generaling. I don’t care which. It’s a straightforward campaign, any of the three will do.”

“If it’s that easy, then why can’t you get Tseng to do it?” Tifa handed over another bowl of prayer balls, looking sympathetically at Cloud. It was flattering, but at the same time, they’d been at this for three hours and barely made a dent. “Or Vincent. Or Chaos. Chaos used to general down below, didn’t he?”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course, hand over my campaign to an elder demon who by definition destroys everything he touches. I want to knock out their military capabilities, not their entire infrastructure.”

“I’m going to kill Yuffie,” Tifa said casually, opening up a prayer ball. She pulled out the little slip of paper and read it, and then grinned. “Or maybe send her to this one. Serves her right, setting up a damn shrine to you and then making off with all the offerings.”

“I brought you an adequate offering!” Rufus snapped. “I prayed! I conducted all the proper rituals!”

“Lazard took Tseng off for a research trip again, didn’t he?” Cloud said. “And Vincent doesn’t feel like it.”

Rufus let out an irritated noise and planted himself on the steps in front of the altar. “I am entitled to a response, Strife.”

“He said no,” Tifa said, starting to rise. She frowned when Cloud stopped her, then sighed and reached for another ball.

“There’s a line ahead of you,” Cloud said, watching Tifa slowly begin to smile. He gestured at the balls. “Sorry, but to be fair…”

Rufus’ eyes narrowed. He looked over the bowls and bowls of balls, then swept forward and gathered up a good half of them. Then he stalked off, already yelling for the Turks.

“Well, good, that means we _might_ finish tonight,” Tifa said, sighing. She opened up her ball, grimaced, and held the slip out to Cloud. “This one is definitely yours.”


End file.
